by R. N. Morris
Quinn thought he was on to something. ‘Do you play the piano too?’
‘No.’ Her private smile became an open smirk. She did something quick and oscillating with her eyes that fascinated Quinn. He wanted to ask her to do it again but found he had lost all confidence.
It was always the same. He could hunt down a ruthless killer without fear, but when it came to making small talk with a young, and quite possibly pretty – yes, he had no doubt, she could be considered pretty, although was pretty really the word? – woman . . . when it came to that he found his courage failed him.
He reminded himself that he had no interest in her in that way; that it was merely a question of getting her to acknowledge him. But why was he so concerned that she should acknowledge him? What was she to him, after all?
‘Lucinda Bracewell,’ he heard himself say.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Lucinda Bracewell. One of the first cases we investigated in Special Crimes. Sir Edward will remember it. Seven men, she murdered. That we know of. Her tenants, they were. Killed them one after the other. Poisoned them. Arsenic. Chopped their bodies up. Very small. And boiled the bones. Remarkable patience that woman had. It must have taken her a good while to cut them up into such small pieces. Speaks well of her strength too. She’d have to heft the bodies about, you see. I expect you’re wondering why she came under the remit of Special Crimes.’
‘I –’
‘That was on account of the penises, you see.’
‘The –?’
‘Yes. She severed the penises and sent them to various Members of Parliament. That counts as a special crime, you see.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
But the door to Sir Edward’s office opened at that moment, saving Quinn from having to explain himself.
The man who came out was unknown to Quinn. He was tall, clean-shaven, and dressed in the frock coat of a gentleman. Greying at the temples, he carried himself with a patrician air, spine straight, shoulders back, head angled up slightly: the perfect posture for looking down on lesser mortals like Quinn, in whose direction he did not, however, direct his gaze.
He was undoubtedly a very important person indeed. Even Sir Edward’s secretary seemed cowed by him. It gave Quinn momentary satisfaction to realize that this imperious being was unaware of her presence; effortlessly so, in contrast to her own determined efforts to ignore Quinn. But then, remembering his own discomfiture of a moment ago, he felt immediately sorry for her.
A grimace of pain showed on Sir Edward Henry’s silver-whiskered features. At first sight, it seemed that his pain was caused by Quinn’s entrance, with which it coincided. But Quinn knew better.
‘The old wound troubling you, sir?’
‘It’s the weather, Quinn. It always plays up in the damp.’
Instinctively, Quinn glanced towards the window of Sir Edward’s office. The unrelenting rain lashed against the panes. It was more than a week ago now since there had been a brief let-up, after which the deluge had returned with renewed force.
‘It must take you back, sir,’ said Quinn.
‘What? Eh?’
Quinn nodded towards a framed photograph of Sir Edward, wearing a linen-swaddled pith helmet. He looked out from beneath the canopy on the back of an elephant, his expression one of imperious bewilderment. ‘To India. In the monsoon season.’
‘Have you ever been to India, Quinn?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Thought not.’ Sir Edward left it at that. Distracted by another spasm of pain, he clenched his right hand into a tight fist. With his other hand he gestured for Quinn to sit down.
‘May I ask you a question, Sir Edward?’
‘Eh?’
‘Why did you speak in his defence? Albert Bowes.’ Quinn was alluding to the assassination attempt that had been made upon Sir Edward two years earlier. Sir Edward had opened his front door to a deranged man with a grudge against him. Quinn couldn’t remember the details, but it was over something ridiculously trivial, he felt sure. At any rate, the man was armed with a revolver. He discharged several shots, one of which struck Sir Edward in the abdomen. It was typical of Sir Edward that he spoke in his assailant’s defence at the trial, which no doubt went some way to reducing his sentence.
‘Alfred, Quinn. His name is Alfred. I didn’t call you here to discuss that.’
‘No. I’m sorry, forgive me. I had no right . . .’
‘Judge not according to the appearance. That’s all I’ll say. John, seven, twenty-four.’
‘But the man tried to kill you.’
‘A troubled soul, Quinn. Sick at heart. I do not believe he was of sound mind at the time of the incident.’
‘Nevertheless . . .’
‘I know it is not your way, Quinn.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Come now, Quinn. You know what I’m talking about. How many is it now?’
‘How many what, sir?’
‘How many what, the man says! Good grief, Quinn. How many suspects have died – have you killed,’ Sir Edward corrected himself, ‘in the course of your investigations?’
‘You must know, Sir Edward, the people I am forced to confront are desperate, dangerous, ruthless individuals. They will do anything to evade capture. In all these cases, it has been a question of self-defence. Of kill or be killed.’
‘And in all too many of these cases, there has been no independent witness to corroborate your version of events.’
‘What are you suggesting? With respect, sir, I have a right to ask that question.’
‘It looks bad.’
‘But what about John, seven, twenty-four?’
‘What? Eh? Doesn’t apply to coppers. You know that, Quinn. Especially in the Met.’
‘Is this an official reprimand, sir?’
‘There’s no need to take that tone, Quinn. It’s a warning, that’s what it is. You cannot set yourself up as judge, jury and executioner.’
‘I don’t.’
‘So what is it then? Carelessness?’
‘These decisions, to shoot or not to shoot . . . One cannot afford to think about it for too long. It’s a split-second decision. You know yourself, from your experience with Bowes, how quickly a situation can turn nasty. My primary concern, always, is to minimize the danger to the public. Invariably, that requires me to close down the criminal’s opportunity for violence.’
‘By killing him?’
‘You knew, Sir Edward, when you set up the department and put me at its head, the nature of the work I would be involved in. I think it’s fair to say, also, that you were not deceived as to the approach I would take.’
‘You had form, if that’s what you’re saying.’
‘If you wish to put it like that.’
‘Please get down off your high horse. I have always supported you, and I continue to support you. However, the Special Crimes Department works best when it is noticed least.’
Quinn felt himself the object of Sir Edward’s sympathetic compassion, which, he realized, put him on a level with the would-be assassin Bowes.
‘Regrettably, your department has come to the attention of certain . . . how can I put it? Influential parties.’
‘Is this to do with the gentleman I saw leaving your office?’
‘Don’t be impertinent, Quinn. I’m not one of your suspects, whom you can interrogate at your will.’
‘Forgive me, Sir Edward.’
‘But, yes. That gentleman is Sir Michael Esslyn.’
The name meant nothing to Quinn.
‘The Permanent Secretary to the Home Office. He has the ear of the Home Secretary.’
Quinn’s rather literal imagination supplied the image of a severed ear in a velvet-lined box.
‘And in many ways, he is more powerful than the Home Secretary, because he is more permanent. He tells me that it is the Home Secretary’s view – or very soon will be – that the Special Crimes Department has outlived its usefulnes
s. The Home Secretary is minded to close you down, to revoke the special warrant that established your department. Of course, the Home Secretary doesn’t yet realize he is so minded.’
Quinn felt the surge of a familiar emotion. It was so comforting and so at home in him that he no longer recognized it for what it was: rage.
He rose from his seat, unsure what he would do or say next. ‘I am grateful to you for informing me of the Home Secretary’s decision. Do you wish me to communicate the news to the men? I think it would be better coming from me, as their immediate commander.’
‘Sit down, Quinn. It hasn’t come to that yet. No decision has been made. Sir Michael made it clear that the Home Secretary is also aware, and appreciative, of the spectacular successes you have achieved. You are an extraordinarily gifted detective, Quinn. No one doubts that.’
‘It is simply a question of application, sir. I do believe in applying myself.’
‘It is more than that, Quinn. It is almost as if there is something personal between you and the criminal. You hound them out.’
‘As I say, sir, application. I do not like to think of them getting away with it.’
‘Your good work has not gone unnoticed. But then again, neither, regrettably, have these unfortunate accidents. The newspapers are beginning to make something of it. Our masters don’t like it when the newspapers get hold of things. It’s generally taken as a sign that we’re losing our grip.’
‘I don’t concern myself with what the newspapers print.’
‘The Daily Clarion has dubbed you “Quick-fire Quinn”. Did you know that?’
‘I did not.’
‘I don’t like that look, Quinn. It’s a dangerous look. It’s the look of a man whose vanity is flattered.’
‘No, sir. With respect, I wasn’t thinking of myself. I was thinking of the department. I was merely wondering, is it necessarily a bad thing? For me to have such a reputation, I mean. Will it not tend to have a deterring effect?’
‘It is vanity, Quinn, however you may wish to justify it to yourself. No. Obscurity. That’s what we want from you. Stay in the shadows, keep your head down. Same goes for your men. Stop getting yourself written about.’
‘I’m not sure that’s within my power to achieve, sir. I cannot control what the newspapers print.’
‘Just try not to kill anyone!’ cried Sir Edward with sudden force. Realizing, perhaps, the impossibility of what he was asking, he relented and added: ‘For a while.’
Sir Edward gave another flinch of pain, which he attempted to cover with an energetic nod. Quinn took it for a gesture of dismissal.
‘No, no. There is one more thing: a case, on which your help is required. The Whitechapel Division have sent word up. A body has been discovered in the London Docks. You are to report to Shadwell Police Station. The body itself is being held at Poplar Mortuary, pending the coroner’s inquest.’
‘A body found in the East End? May I ask, in what way does that constitute a special crime, sir?’
‘I take a special interest in the area, Quinn. I was born there, you know.’
‘In Shadwell?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I did not know.’
‘Leaving that aside, it is a . . .’ Sir Edward cast about for the appropriate word. ‘Volatile area. Criminality is a way of life for many, of course. There are foreign influences to consider. The lascars, chinks and yids. And the dockworkers are a militant bunch. There is a delicate balance at play. If it were to be upset in any way, it could be catastrophic given the importance of the Thames for the life of the capital, the country and even the Empire.’
‘With all respect, Sir Edward: even so, I am not convinced that it warrants our involvement.’
‘The body, Quinn, was drained of blood. Every last drop. Utterly exsanguinated, was how the Whitechapel police surgeon put it.’
‘I see.’
‘There are other aspects to the case that make it sensitive. We have so far managed to keep the details out of the papers, in order not to alarm the general public. I mentioned the coroner’s inquest . . . that will take place in camera, without a jury.’
‘In camera? Isn’t that reserved for cases in which there are issues of national security?’
Sir Edward nodded in confirmation. ‘These are dangerous times internationally. Go to Shadwell Police Station. The case file is there. You can read the details for yourself.’
‘I shall leave immediately.’
‘Good man. Oh, and be careful, Quinn. Look upon this as a test, for you and your department. The Home Secretary’s eyes will be on you.’
A second excessively literal image forced itself upon Quinn. He fled the room, as if he believed it contained the eyes in question, having perhaps been delivered in another velvet-lined box by the Home Office mandarin he had seen earlier.
East
The Special Crimes Department had been set up as something of a pet project by Sir Edward. He was very much the man for pet projects. There were times when Quinn almost believed the department had come into being purely as a way of accommodating his own peculiar talents within the Met.
To begin with, Quinn was assigned a permanent staff of two, Detective Sergeants Inchball and Macadam. There was the promise of more men in the future. Enough years had gone by for Quinn to accept that it was a promise that would never be fulfilled.
When the need arose, he had licence to call upon additional officers from whatever police division he was assisting. However, the call was not always answered, at least not with alacrity or enthusiasm.
There was invariably a degree of horse trading for which Quinn had little taste and less aptitude. He never could understand why the station sergeants did not share his sense of urgency. How could an overturned collier’s wagon compare with the flight of a vicious multiple murderer, even if one or two passers-by were engaging in a spot of opportunistic looting?
What made it even more galling was that the division inspectors often took the sergeants’ side. But Quinn knew he had the backing of the commissioner. If he had to go right to the top, he would. Most superintendents knew this. So Quinn usually got the men he needed before it was necessary to trouble Sir Edward.
But it was all such a terrible waste of energy and time.
It was only natural that he allowed these frustrations to fuel his rage. His mission – and yes, he had a sense of mission – required him at these moments to be in a state of heightened, and wholly righteous, aggression. He had to turn himself into a human weapon, directed by society’s need for justice.
He had to keep in mind the defiled virgins, the butchered widows, and the woeful lethargy of his colleagues in the Metropolitan Police Force. And he had to allow the rage to take him over. Sometimes he could feel it flooding through his veins. He would wait until he had a sense of it filling his hands, up to the fingertips, before unleashing himself.
Against all this, it must be said that Special Crimes had been granted an extraordinary privilege. They had been allocated the use of a motor car.
The black 1912 Ford Model T was Sergeant Macadam’s pride and joy, emotions in which Quinn consciously took no part. He preferred to see the vehicle as no more or less than they were entitled to. After all, they were called upon to cover an area that stretched from Dagenham in the East to Uxbridge in the West, and from Potters Bar in the North to Epsom in the South.
Yes, there were railways, but when responsiveness and speed were of the essence, at all hours of the day and night, the railways could not necessarily be relied upon. Bicycles had been suggested. But Sir Edward must have caught something in Quinn’s eye that discouraged him from pressing forward with that particular plan.
Macadam had taught himself to drive on the job, largely through a process of trial and error. There had been one or two accidents, especially in the early days, but only one fatality.
Fortunately, that incident had not dented Macadam’s enthusiasm for motoring, and had gone some way towards inspiring
Quinn with respect, if not reverence, for the vehicle. It was not just a convenient mode of transport, he realized. In the right hands, it was a lethal weapon.
Quinn stood in the drizzle on the Victoria Embankment, waiting for Macadam to bring the Ford round. He was grateful for his herringbone Ulster coat and black bowler hat. The two items of clothing formed a protective layer around him, keeping at bay more than just the moisture in the air. He felt that he would be lost without them, his bowler in particular. It was like the carapace of a tortoise: part of him, but also a shield against everything in the world that threatened to overwhelm him. Even when he was not wearing it, he felt its clinging ghost in place; he was never at one, never fully himself, until he had restored it.
He watched clumps of sodden debris float away on the surface of the turbid river, carried east by the tide. The river’s depths were impenetrable to his gaze. His peculiar imagination filled the blank with dark and sinister forms.
The day presented such a despondent face that it seemed almost malign. It was the face of a beggar. It would take everything from him, if he let it.
He stood with Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster at his back, feeling the presence of his lords and masters looming over him, watching his every move. Earlier he had caught a glimpse of one of them, the Home Office mandarin, who by now would be safely ensconced in his room in Whitehall; or more likely, in his club, his work for the day done.
But however much men like that believed they were in control, however much they believed they had their hands on the tiller of state, there would always be some ungovernable little thug somewhere undoing their work. Rendering them powerless.
Because when a man picked up a length of sharpened steel and plunged it into another man’s heart, at that moment he, the killer, was in charge. All the power of the world flowed through him.
This was something Quinn understood. It was the source of his vigilance. And the root of his darkest fears.
The silver-templed civil servants were powerless against such individuals. To keep them in check, they needed men like Quinn. That was why he knew that ultimately there was no danger of them revoking the special warrant, the paper talisman from which Quinn drew his own power.
