A Gathering of Saints

by A Gathering of Saints (retail) (epub)

  Black nodded to himself. Queer Jack had probably followed Trench on at least one occasion and knew that the Magpie and Stump was convenient. Knew about the chessboard table.

  ‘He gave you no way to recognise him?’

  ‘No. He said he’d find me.’

  ‘How did he introduce himself?’

  ‘He said he was a member of the Society, like me, and that he thought we’d have a lot in common, considering our mutual interests. He said he was going to be in Coventry today on business and offered to buy me dinner. I said I’d give him the tour.’

  ‘You weren’t suspicious?’

  ‘No. Why should I be? It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened.’

  ‘All right. What time were you supposed to meet him?’

  ‘Six thirty, spot on.’

  ‘Spot on?’

  ‘He said he was a bit of a fiend about punctuality.’ More than just a fiend for being on time. Black glanced at his watch. It was ten past six.

  ‘How far is the Stump from here?’

  ‘Not very. Cope Street, just the other side of the cathedral.’ Trench reached back and began untying his apron. ‘Half a minute to change and we’ll cut along.’

  ‘One more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What name did he give you?’

  ‘Exner. Bernard Timothy Exner.’

  The Stump turned out to be a narrow, half-timbered building in the shadow of the huge Triumph Cycle Works complex located just off Priory Street, only a block or so away from St Michael’s Cathedral. According to Trench, the faint smell of sewage wafting up to them on the night air came from the River Sherbourne, a sluggishly flowing ditch that wound snake-like through the old city, which the various Works operations used to dump effluent.

  The interior of the public house was crowded with men and women from the nearby motorcycle factory, most still dressed in overalls, the familiar Triumph lettering stencilled on the back. The long, L-shaped bar was jammed two deep and the tables and booths around the perimeter of the main room were all filled. Through an open doorway at the far end of the bar, Black could see another group playing darts in a small games room beyond.

  The pub was noisy, alive with sounds of laughter and the clink and clatter of bottles and glasses. A haze of cigarette smoke hung like a fog from the dark rafters overhead. Two men wearing aprons and a middle-aged, blowsy woman with peroxide-blonde hair were working hard behind the bar, while at least four waitresses carried huge trays loaded with drinks through the chattering throng, yelling new orders back to the barmen every few seconds. The room reeked of tobacco, hops and human sweat.

  Following the plan they’d discussed on the brief walk up the hill from the West Orchard Street market, Trench made his way down to the end of the room and took up his place at the inlaid chessboard close to the games room doorway. Elbowing his way through the crowd as politely as he could, Black found a spot midway down the long bar and ordered himself a pint. By craning his neck he could just see Trench, who was now setting up pieces on the chessboard.

  The detective peered at his watch, blinking at the tobacco sting in his eyes. It was now almost exactly six thirty. He could feel his heart pounding and he lit a cigarette of his own. If past experience was any gauge, the raid, if there was going to be one, would begin sometime between seven and eight o’clock, giving the guiding moon a chance to rise fully over the target.

  If Queer Jack had any hope of escaping before the cataclysm began, he was cutting it very fine: ninety minutes, or perhaps even less, to meet with Trench, lure him to whatever out-of-the-way spot he’d chosen, do the deed then vanish before the bombers came.

  Standing there in the roiling currents of humanity around the bar, Black found it almost impossible to think clearly but he clutched at that single thought – Queer Jack was cutting it very fine. The detective smiled then took a long pull on his lukewarm drink, a hundred tiny details suddenly falling into place. He hadn’t lost it after all, not yet. The Sight.

  Of course Queer Jack was cutting it fine – ‘spot on,’ as Trench had said, an obsession with punctuality. For Black’s quarry, timing and place would be everything. Whatever evil nest of vipers the man carried in his heart, the essence of him was logic, neatness, clarity. He knew his victim, knew the place where he would make his kill with the efficiency of a stalking huntsman. Would have the method of escape planned with meticulous care. You bastard, Black thought. You evil bloody bastard.

  Black gestured to the blonde woman behind the bar, busy swabbing out another tray of freshly washed glasses. ‘Would you happen to have a train schedule about anywhere?’

  ‘Might,’ the woman grunted. She dropped her cloth down on the bar, then bent down and began rummaging below the counter. She resurfaced a moment later and slapped a damp folder down in front of the detective. ‘There you are, love.’ She went back to her duties and Black picked up the schedule, thinking hard.

  Four trains were listed as departing Coventry between seven and eight. A local to Nuneaton, another to Rugby and two express trains – one to London and the other to Birmingham. The London train was scheduled to leave at 7:20. The only train before it was the one to Nuneaton at 7:05. Assuming that Queer Jack would try to return to London, the 7:20 was the most likely. On the other hand, the line had been blocked earlier in the day. It had probably been repaired by now but would Queer Jack take the chance or would he catch the Birmingham train at 7:45?

  ‘How far is the railway station from here?’ asked Black.

  The blonde woman looked up from her dishwashing and frowned. ‘Down the way a bit. Ten minutes by tram. Longer in a taxi.’

  ‘On foot?’

  ‘Depends on how you go. Fifteen minutes on the main streets, ten if you go through the back ways at Jordan’s Well and Whitefriars Gate.’ Too long, Black thought, too much chance of error. Somehow it seemed unlikely that he would have hired a car so…

  ‘Is there a bus terminal nearby?’

  The blonde woman nodded. ‘Block away. Midland Red. Up Priory Street on the far side of Pool Meadow by the fire hall.’

  ‘You don’t happen to have a schedule by any—’

  ‘Don’t need one. On the hour to Kenilworth and Rugby, on the quarter to Lichfield and Nuneaton, on the half to Birmingham.’ Times and destinations Queer Jack would already know.

  And once in Birmingham he’d have an almost infinite number of choices. Granting ten minutes after the commission of his crime to reach the bus terminal, Queer Jack had given himself less than an hour. Utterly self-assured, supremely arrogant. And with good reason, Black thought bitterly. He thought about the bodies of Talbot and Rudelski, Eddings and Dranie. The mouldering waxy corpse of Jane Luffington. Five dead, and without the accident of the photograph in Dranie’s house and Queer Jack’s own taunting postcard left in Talbot’s car, virtually nothing to go on. He’d almost managed it. But not quite.

  Black leaned forward and looked down the length of the bar. Trench was hunched over the board, staring down at the pieces. The detective picked up his pint glass and turned around casually, letting his eyes drift over the crowd. Whom was he looking for? Someone anonymous, nondescript and, according to Spilsbury, someone with strong hands. No one stood out as far as the detective could see. No one sat alone. The blackout curtains over the door hung heavy and unmoving. He looked at his watch again. Twenty to seven. Queer Jack was late.

  Or was he? Black felt a terrible chill run down his spine. He put his glass carefully down on the bar. Queer Jack lived by the force of time and logic; by his own admission to Brian Trench he was obsessed with punctuality. Which meant the man was here, had been here before they arrived, waiting, assessing, watching. The detective closed his eyes for a moment and tried to breathe evenly. Thank God he and Trench had come into the Stump separately.

  He glanced towards the curtain-covered front door again. He’d noticed a call box outside, a few steps from the entrance, the small light in the cubicle pa
inted dark blue. How long would it take to reach the local police, explain to them who he was and why he was here? Too long. Too bloody long. It was insanity. Without taking even the most rudimentary precautions he’d put Trench at terrible risk, all for his own desire to catch Queer Jack. To prove himself to Liddell and God knows whom else. To be Morris Black, perfect detective, perfect Jew. Bloody, bloody hell!

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No matter what the consequences, the only thing he could do now was to stop the process before it was too late. If Queer Jack was already in the Stump, he’d see Trench being approached and slip away, unnoticed. If the murderer really was late, he’d arrive at the pub and find his victim in Black’s company. It was the only way to keep Trench safe from possible harm.

  Black turned, edging away from the bar and began to work his way back towards the rear of the room. Then he froze, horrified. Through the crowd he could just make out Trench. The butcher’s assistant had turned away from the chessboard and was talking to someone who had his back to Morris Black. All the detective could make out was a figure in a dark trilby hat and a fawn-coloured raincoat. Not a large man but not small either. Nondescript. Where in hell had he come from?

  It was too late to think about that now. Black gritted his teeth and moved on, pressing through the crowded room. At least the man had his back to him. He hesitated. Through the din he was sure he’d heard someone call his name but that was ridiculous of course, since no one in Coventry—

  ‘Morris!’ A woman’s voice, calling him. Oh, dear God! Who? He looked around wildly and then the voice came again, much more loudly, pitched against the noise in the room. Almost laughing. ‘Detective Inspector Morris Black!’

  For a single, nightmarish instant it seemed to the detective that time had been suspended. Thirty feet away he saw Trench’s surprised face looking desperately in his direction over the shoulder of his companion. Beyond them, framed in the doorway leading to the games room, Katherine Copeland stood smiling, one hand lifted, waving at him.

  The man with Trench turned slightly and Black had the brief sight of a thin, terribly pale face, eyes hidden behind the lenses of wire-rimmed spectacles. Then the face turned away. A hand, grey-gloved, came up carrying something dark and rectangular and thrust it in Trench’s direction. The butcher’s assistant’s eyes bulged enormously and his hand came up, gripping his throat. He dropped back onto his seat at the chessboard and disappeared from view. When Black looked again, Queer Jack was almost gone, pushing past Katherine Copeland, who was still standing in the doorway leading to the games room, a bewildered half-smile on her face, her wide eyes confused.

  Black rushed forward, his hopes of surprise dashed with the sound of Katherine’s voice. He bludgeoned through the crowd, pushing people out of his way with one hand, the other reaching into his jacket and pulling out his warrant card. ‘Police! Clear the way!’

  He barely paused when he reached the end of the bar, his eyes sweeping quickly over the slumped figure of poor Brian Trench, the front of his crisp, white shirt now flooded with blood from the gaping tap of his torn throat, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, his mouth sagging. People were already crowding around the dying man; if there was any help for him, someone else would have to give it.

  The detective reached the games room door, pushed Katherine aside without a word and kept on, waving the warrant card, his other arm sweeping people out of the way. Black saw his mistake now; another doorway led to a small dining room and beyond that a rear entrance to the Magpie and Stump. Running now, stumbling as his hip smashed into a table, overturning it, he raced for the door, watching as it swung shut behind his elusive quarry. Sensing someone behind him, he wasted another precious second, half-turning, spotting Katherine behind him.

  ‘Keep the bloody hell away!’ he yelled. He rushed for the door, pushed it open and ran out into the darkness. A lane, cobbled, stones pale in the cool, bright light of the fully risen moon. Fifty feet away a racing shadow and the sound of running footsteps.

  He rushed on, vaguely hearing the sound of a slamming door and other footsteps. The Copeland woman, following him. Ignoring her, he pelted down the lane after Queer Jack, desperately trying to orient himself as he ran. The rear of the Stump would face north so he was moving east now, the blank, windowless walls on his left the back of the Triumph Works. Which way would the bastard go?

  The barmaid said that the bus terminal was no more than a block away, up the hill on Priory Street. But they were moving downhill. The wrong direction. Christ! What was Queer Jack doing?

  The lane ended at the entrance to Dale Street. Peering to the left, Black saw the high, locked main gates of the Works complex. No sign of Jack. He turned right. Behind him he heard Katherine calling his name, pleading for him to stop, but once again he ignored her. Fifty feet farther on and still no sign of his man. He was back on Cope Street, the front entrance to the Stump dimly visible on his right. Across the street the patch-dark gloom of another lane. He threw himself forward, his breath ragged now, lungs burning.

  Reaching the entrance to the lane, he paused for a split second, listening. He was facing south now, away from the bus terminal. He heard the barmaid’s voice again – Jordan’s Well and Whitefriars Gate. The train station. A fallback. He headed into the dark mouth of the alley, moving more slowly now, but still running. Would Queer Jack wait? Lurk in some shaded doorway? Strike again the way he’d struck at Trench? In his mind’s eye, Black saw the man’s drenched, scarlet shirtfront, and he groaned helplessly, increasing the pace.

  The alley twisted and turned, following a downhill path between the backs of office buildings and shops. Far ahead he heard the sudden tinny smash of a dustbin overturning and then the yowling screech of a cat. Queer Jack was still ahead. A minute later, passing the scattered litter from the dustbin, he came out onto New Street and paused again. A block away on his left he could see the tower of St Michael’s Cathedral rising above the screening back of trees around it, the four flying buttresses like huge stone needles at the tower’s square summit, supporting the massive, soaring spire. The lead roof of the cathedral was lightly coated with early-evening frost, turning it a ghostly silver that would be visible from miles away in the all-revealing light of the fat full moon.

  Black could barely breathe now and he was forced to pause again, bending, hands on his knees as he fought to take in huge breaths of the cool night air. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and he straightened, whirling in panic-stricken terror, his fist cocked back, ready to strike.

  ‘Morris! No! It’s me!’

  Katherine. ‘Oh, Jesus! I told you to bloody well stay away!’ he gasped. Her face was pale and frightened in the faint cold light.

  ‘Morris! God damn it! What the hell is going on?’

  ‘No time. He’s getting away!’ He shook off her hand and stumbled forward again, weaving across the street. There was no sign of Queer Jack. No sound. Directly ahead of him the entrance to yet another alleyway. Oh, God! he thought. So close, so bloody close! He moved off again, ignoring the tearing pain in his lungs and the sound of Katherine’s running steps echoing behind. He came out into the open briefly, the melancholy vista of the old bishop’s graveyard sloping away on his right. Above him the huge circle of the pitiless full moon glowed like a treacherous searchlight in the dark night sky. Black ran on.

  Halfway down an alley to the south of Jordan’s Well, the detective paused again, his frosty breath coming in long panting gasps. On his left was the high, windowless brick wall of a cinema, on his right, the hoardings surrounding the Lea Francis Cycle Works. It was pitch-dark here, the path between the buildings so narrow that even a full moon could shed no light.

  Directly ahead of him the alley split like the frayed end of a rope, going off in all directions. Black, totally unfamiliar with his surroundings, was lost within the complex maze of mews and lanes in the centre of the old, closely built domestic and factory district crowded into a six-hundred-by-four-hundred-foot
area between Little Park Street, Earl Street and Much Park Street. Queer Jack had vanished into this ancient, dingy rabbit warren and with a sinking heart Morris Black knew that he didn’t have the faintest chance of finding him.

  ‘Morris?’ It was Katherine, catching up with him at last. He turned angrily. She was standing a few feet away, hair madly tousled by the chase, eyes wide. Somewhere along the way she’d managed to tear away the sleeve of her short, dark-blue coat, and one of her shoes was missing.

  ‘The bastard’s gone,’ said Black. ‘The bloody bastard’s gone!’ He suddenly felt a tearing, burning sensation in his side and for a mad instant he wanted to reach out and smack the woman in the face. It was her fault! All her fault!

  He bent over, ears ringing, ashen-faced at the tearing pain from the muscle spasm. Katherine took a step forward, then stopped, her head jerking upward, the anguish on her face changing instantly to fear.

  ‘Morris!’

  ‘Shut up!’ he groaned. ‘Just shut up, can’t you!’ If it hadn’t been for the wretched woman’s sudden appearance… Still a chance though. He could get to the train station and then…

  She stepped forward again, grasping his arm. ‘Morris! Listen!’ Sirens. The sickly, undulating moan of an alert.

  ‘It’s starting!’ he whispered, looking up at the sliver of sky over their heads.

  The high-pitched siren’s wail began to fade and then, for one long moment, there was absolute silence. Finally, out of the distance, both Black and Katherine heard the sound of the approaching bombers, a low, growling mutter that grew with each passing second. Not the threaded string of a London raid – this was something different, a solid wall of sound.

  Black looked around wildly. Behind them, up the hill, was St Michael’s and the centre of the city; in front, a score of twisting paths that might lead to safety or just as easily to a dead end without any kind of shelter. A single high-explosive bomb on the cinema beside them would bring the looming brick wall down on their heads; an incendiary in the yard of the Cycle Works would see them incinerated.