No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (e

  Annie looked at the table. The two glasses of wine sat there. While they remained unchanged, everything else, their circumstances, now had.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  He shook his head as if not knowing where to begin.

  “The captain has just put himself in great danger to help us,” she added.

  “He has, hasn’t he?” mused Rideau. “And if you consider the effort he’s expended on behalf of old fool Cox, a man he disliked almost as much as I did, then you absolutely have to give him full marks for decency.”

  With his free hand he reached for his wine glass and drained the last mouthful. He motioned for her to do the same.

  “Please, no point in wasting it.”

  “I wouldn’t drink with you now if you were the last man on earth.”

  Rideau smiled.

  “Come, come. No need to be quite so melodramatic. You still know very little about me. Are jumping to all sorts of conclusions. I’m no more a monster now than I was five minutes ago.”

  “It doesn’t alter the fact that you’ve now got a gun pointed at me.”

  He ignored her.

  “Please …”

  He said it firmly and steadily.

  “… I just need to know – Moriarty. Who is Moriarty?”

  Annie’s first instinct, curiously, was one of offence. Had she and Finch really conveyed an air of deceit? They had been nothing but honest.

  In which case, did her safety now rely on pretence that she knew more than they had been letting on, or an emphatic repeat of their denial?

  “What do you know?” she asked.

  He gave a supercilious chuckle.

  “Very clever,” he said. “But a response that is not going to win you any favours. Now, I repeat—”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “This?” he wagged the gun. “I thought that was more than obvious.”

  “No … Why? … Why do you need to know who Moriarty is?”

  He seemed momentarily perplexed.

  “My poor sweet dear,” he patronised. “The same reason you are after him. Don’t think I didn’t have a good poke around in that office desk myself. Bottle of rum wasn’t it? And we all know Cox had long given up sewing those blasted papers into his jacket. Abandoned that little trick before he went off to the Front. It’s just about then that our Moriarty comes on the scene. Keeping the goodies safe for Cox’s return, only now holding on to them indefinitely, it would seem. However, you obviously got one step further than me if you hooked up with our man Shawcroft. So, I need to know. Who—?”

  “And what if I tell you nothing?”

  He exhaled.

  “Please, let us not let this become vulgar.”

  She saw that he seemed to relax slightly, as if threatening people with weaponry was a reluctant last resort; that he’d much rather continue to play the bon viveur.

  No matter. The fact was – pretty as his gun looked – he was a man with an instrument of death. It was aimed at her.

  The work surface was on her left. Rideau hadn’t removed all the items. The chopping board and the large kitchen knife she’d used, its blade flecked with onion peel, were close. If she could just reach …

  “Look, I don’t know quite how to put this, but the identity of Moriarty is of immense value,” Rideau went on. “As you’ve seen already, people have been killed over it. I’m sorry, but our friend Finch, that suicide mission … He’ll be in police hands by now and with no Brookman around to defend him.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  He furrowed his brow in thought for a moment.

  “Look … let’s not make this anymore unpleasant or difficult. It’s become complicated enough. I have a proposition for you. A third way. You lead me to Moriarty, I’ll split the proceeds … say 70/30. The 70 to me, obviously.”

  “Proceeds?”

  Annie moved towards him. Even though he had the gun, she was the one with the power, the one with the supposed knowledge. He took a step back.

  “You are joking?” she snarled.

  “A bull market as the stock exchange types like to say. We can make a killing.”

  She felt almost sorry for him. Rideau and his grubby little habit. She’d never met an addict but she had known drunks. It was the same thing. Men who could be charm itself and then lie and cheat to a selfish end. Whether one drank it, smoked it or injected it, it made no difference.

  She shook her head at his shame.

  “Then 60/40?”

  She did not dignify it with a response.

  “What you know, about Moriarty,” he urged. “I assure you now your most prudent course of action is to share it with me. I have connections. If you’re bound to me, you’re secure.”

  “You’re pathetic. You think I’d sell out Captain Finch for a few pieces of silver?”

  “More than a few …”

  In moving a step forward, she had now screened the knife. With her left hand she swept it off the table and held it point down, tucked into the fold of her skirt.

  “… I warn you, Miss Jones. Please don’t make this unpleasant. He’ll be out of the picture by now, the captain. There’s nothing you … we can do for—”

  The air of confrontation was suddenly punctured by the sharp rat-a-tat of the door knocker.

  “Finch!” squealed Annie and pushed right past Rideau.

  “Miss Jones, I’m warning you, don’t!” he protested, quite ineffectually.

  She raced to the front door, slid the bolt and turned the handle.

  “Captain Finch!”

  But it was not Captain Finch standing on the doorstep. It was a solid, square, muscular man in a navy blue suit. His hair was …

  “Miss Jones,” said Rideau from behind. “I believe you have already met my associate, Mr Payne.”

  The man said nothing – simply stepped in and, without turning, closed the door behind him.

  “Now, most heartily,” Rideau added. “I would advise your full cooperation.”

  The man advanced towards her. His eyes were steely blue. Expressionless.

  “A recurring pleasure,” he uttered in his unfeeling monotone.

  “Miss Jones and I were just having lunch,” bantered Rideau, as if the whole thing had been mere fun and games. “Discussing the whereabouts of our mutual friend Moriarty.”

  The red-haired man … Payne … ignored Rideau. He came closer. He backed Annie against the wall in the hallway, raised his left arm, placing his hand on the door jamb just above and to the left of her head. His face was only a foot from hers. His right hand, ominously, remained in his pocket, brandishing something.

  “Please, Miss Jones,” said Rideau, the tone apologetic, embarrassed. “It would ease proceedings if you could enlighten Mr Payne as to both Moriarty’s identity and his whereabouts. This whole business really is becoming most troublesome.”

  In a generally expressionless individual, even Annie could recognise disgust. Payne shot Rideau a look of contempt.

  … And that was when Annie wriggled it to her right and, in one deft move, whipped the chopping knife up and over, plunging it straight through Payne’s left hand, skewering it to the door frame.

  He did not scream or yell, merely uttered a grunt of inconvenience as he tried to wrestle the knife free. But Annie was already hurtling down the hallway towards the back door.

  “Please! Miss Jones!” begged Rideau.

  She scooped up her boots, pulled the key from the lock, slammed the door shut behind her and locked it again from the outside, flinging the key into the bushes. She ran across the small backyard, exited through the gate and turned left into the alleyway, the direction she had heard described to Finch. There were already thumps against the back door.

  Then she put her head down and, as best as her clothes would let her, charged … smack into the chest of a man in a smart beige suit hastening towards her.

  “Nurse Jones
. Thank God!” panted Finch.

  “Get out of here!”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  This time it was Annie who grabbed Finch’s hand. With boots in the other she was running in stockinged feet. She pulled Finch around, back towards the street.

  “Rideau,” she blurted. “He’s—”

  “I know.”

  The tram stop was up ahead. The cables crackled. One was near. As they hit the end of the alley, the number 36 was departing, heading into the city. It had started to rumble off down the tracks.

  There was another sound, this time one of shattering wood. Fifty yards behind them, Payne had burst through the door. As they reached the high street, Finch glanced back over his shoulder. The man was sprinting towards them, arms pumping, knees raised high, striding like an Athens Olympian.

  “What the hell?”

  The tram was speeding up. They ran straight across the road, causing a horse cart to swerve. Annie caught the pole on the tailboard and shoved Finch up on board, throwing her boots after him. Though she had a handhold, she felt her feet become entangled in her skirt, stumbling now, trying to keep her balance.

  Finch looked up. The red-haired man was closing fast. He kept one hand on the pole and reached out with his other to grab Annie’s elbow. She locked her palm onto his forearm.

  “Jump!”

  She lifted her right leg high and pushed off hard with her left. Finch swung her mid-air and she landed one foot on the tailboard.

  … But she was violently yanked back. The red-haired man, Payne, sprinting as hard and as fast as he could, had seized the hem of her skirt.

  For the first time, she screamed. She wrapped her arms tight around the pole while Finch tried to wrestle her on board. Even at full tilt, the man seemed in control. He had immense strength in his arms, felt Finch. And he had been wounded. Blood gushed from an open slash in his hand.

  Finch’s gammy left leg still had its uses. He delivered a hard, sharp kick, landing his toecap on the bridge of the man’s nose.

  Payne lost his grip, staggered, fell and rolled over, before righting himself and resuming his chase. He too was limping now. But it was too late, the tram had cranked up enough speed.

  Heads had turned from within. The conductor appeared – a small, older man with a wrinkled and bemused expression.

  “What on earth’s going on?”

  “Someone behaving in an ungentlemanly fashion,” said Finch.

  “You all right, Miss?” asked the conductor.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  She turned her face away so he couldn’t register her upset. She kept her stockinged feet concealed beneath her skirt.

  “Listen, there’s one along every seven minutes. No point getting yourself killed over it.”

  Finch nodded.

  “Where to?”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “All points to the docks.”

  “The docks it is, then … Two.”

  “Tuppence ha’penny.”

  Finch rummaged for change; the conductor wound the handle on the ticket machine hanging on the leather strap round his neck, then turned to go back inside.

  “Any more fares?” he boomed.

  “You want to sit?” asked Finch to Annie. “We’re a bit exposed out here.”

  “Better not.”

  She tipped her head discreetly.

  Nearest the doorway was a middle-aged man. He was reading the Cape Argus. The front page contained a bold headline:

  ‘KILLER AT LARGE’

  Underneath it, Finch saw, was a grainy halftone image … of himself, a cropped head-shot from the standard stiff portrait they had all had taken when they first joined up.

  “Christ.”

  “I know. You’d think they have found something more flattering.”

  He smiled.

  Annie leaned against the hand rail and pulled on her boots.

  “So he’s our second man, you think? … Rideau,” asked Finch. “He was the one who returned to climb on board the cab?”

  She shrugged a ‘yes’.

  “Still doesn’t make sense though, does it? I mean Rideau said he knew Cox no longer kept the documents on his person, that he’d passed them on to Moriarty, so he couldn’t have been searching for them on board that night.”

  “Unless Moriarty had made contact by this point and the documents were back in Cox’s possession.”

  “That runs counter to what Lady Verity and Shawcroft intimated. But it begs a question. If Cox were germane to the hunt for Moriarty, why eliminate him? Why not just follow him? Or coerce him?”

  “More importantly,” said Annie, “if you’re an addict, why kill someone … your supplier of all people … and with the very drug that you so covet? There’s no logic to it.”

  “Though it would explain why someone would be rooting around in the dark in the dirt for a coat … If he thought it had laudanum in the pocket?”

  “Which would account for Rideau’s damaged hands.”

  The sun was going down, the cover of darkness was on its way. Fortunately, the picture in the newspaper was a poor likeness, plus Finch was no longer in uniform. He was anxious to read the story but when the man got off at a later stop, he took the paper with him.

  They alighted ahead of the docks, jumping off when it slowed down to sufficient speed. It was dark, there were plenty of people, including an exodus of dock workers. Despite the occasional glimpse of police, there was safety in numbers.

  “Here,” said Finch, pressing a penny into Annie’s hand.

  A few paces ahead was a newspaper vendor. Annie purchased the Argus. They stepped into an alleyway. It was hard to read in the gloom. Finch lit a match.

  “Congratulations. Says you are responsible for the ‘wilful extinguishing’ of the life of a Mr Maitland Shawcroft, a reporter for the Post,” she recounted.

  Newspaper rivalry being what it was, Finch took grim, wry amusement at the fact that the Argus – despite the untimely death of a fellow professional – could not resist a dig at the competence of the competition.

  Something did not sit right here either.

  “But how did they know it was me?”

  “You had a knife in your hand, remember?”

  “No, I mean how did they recognise me?”

  “I suppose they were on the lookout for you. Maybe there was someone in the crowd—”

  He shook his head.

  “Shawcroft. He addressed you by name?”

  “Yes … but it was noisy, brief. I doubt very much that anyone overheard or was remotely paying attention.”

  “Shawcroft. Did he have anything on him? Had he written your name down?”

  “Given his paranoia about our meeting, I doubt it.”

  “The RAMC offices then … Daisy. They could have traced your identity back to her. There were Military Foot Police after us there, not to mention you’re a named fugitive.”

  He exhaled a hiss of suspicion.

  “I’m not saying the paper knew in advance, but someone fed them the information pretty damn quickly. This whole thing, someone’s been one step ahead of us.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Come on.”

  He took her hand and they ventured out into the street.

  “Till guardian angel Brookman shows up, there’s one more thing.”

  At the docks, even after nightfall, and despite the large discharge of workers, there were still soldiers everywhere. You could hear the shouts of the quartermasters as military cargo was stocked and logged, part of the unfathomable logistics of supplying over 200,000 regular and colonial soldiers, and with more than that number again still set to arrive.

  They picked their way through the crates and boxes and a succession of backstreets and alleyways. The smell of seawater and oil was heady, the universal cocktail of the harbour.

  It was cool now. Finch still hadn’t got used to the transition from light to dark, heat to cool, that came at the flip of a switch at
this latitude – so unlike the protracted summer evenings of home.

  “There,” he announced.

  Ahead, across a slick cobbled square, intersected by redundant tramlines, was a row of two-storey buildings that looked like they were once part of the shipbuilding business. Behind them was the water and a silhouette backdrop of masts, the cables and rigging tinkering on the breeze.

  Opposite the central building was a row of hansom cabs, the horses idling. Even at this early hour there was the glow of lights and the sound of jollity from within. There were people going in and out, valets in red tunics opening doors.

  “The Officers’ Club?” asked Annie.

  “The very same.”

  They watched for a moment. The acoustics were such you could pick out individual voices through the open windows – pompous English ones, noted Annie. You could also, even at this distance, smell the alcohol and cigars.

  “The cream of the British Empire,” sighed Finch.

  Two days earlier, she would not have appreciated it as sarcasm.

  A pair of army officers stepped out. They appeared to press money into the hands of a waiting steward who blew a whistle and beckoned. As he did so, the cab at the head of the queue jolted into life and the horse clip-clopped over.

  “You have a plan?” Annie asked.

  “We have the club before us; it’s dark, there’s a rank of cabs – the correct conditions. Why not take a look at the crime scene?”

  Keeping to the concrete wall, which held back a crumbling earth bank, they skirted round the back of the cab rank. The buggies all shuffled forward a few feet as they advanced up the pecking order.

  The first cab had wheeled round into the middle of the square; the two officers walked towards it and a valet opened the door for them.

  “See, the cab doesn’t pull up close, it turns a few yards out,” he observed, “so that it can get a clear run at the ramp up to the road.”

  A bench was situated opposite the club, about ten yards from the door – wood planks on wrought iron supports and bolted to the floor; it abutted an ornamental obelisk with a bed of flowers.