by Clive Mullis
‘So you think this Freddie is our murderer?’ asked Rose, leaning back.
‘Seems likely. I reckon someone paid him to lift some stuff, so he went in first to case the joint as the Mr M Bezel; he probably thought it was funny. When the accountant went out, he went back in, but hadn’t thought there would be a cleaner cleaning; he must have panicked when he thought he might get caught, and so exit one cleaner. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.’
Frankie gave a cheery wave to the driver as they hopped off and headed off down the street towards the bridge. They passed the Guilds Hall where the heads of all the guilds met to manipulate the city’s prices, and then on through the park and out, down one street and across another, which led to the Gornstock Bridge. They turned right when they crossed over then down the embankment to a dense grey monstrosity of dilapidated buildings that were already crumbling away. There should have had a warning sign, saying “STOP. DO NOT PASS.” They had arrived at the Brews and hell on twearth.
‘Looks a nice place,’ observed Rose, with a shiver running up her spine.
‘I take it you have not been here before then?’ replied Frankie. ‘Well, stick close to me and you won’t go wrong. There are little pockets of sanity in here and we’ll mainly stick close to those areas. Stick yer nose in where it’s not wanted and yer liable to have it cut off.’
‘Oooh, I can’t wait.’
She didn’t have to. Frankie stepped into the narrow alley without another thought and Rose dutifully followed behind. Even though the sun shone brightly, the buildings leant over above them, seeming to touch, cutting off the light and making the place dark and dingy. Underfoot, the cobbles were slimy and the smell reeked of something long long dead. Already an interest had developed in the newcomers, as what passed for curtains here twitched to allow for viewing. The heavy silence seemed doom filled as they continued to go deeper into the slum.
‘This place might interest you,’ said Frankie, sounding very much like a tour guide. ‘A little old lady runs this shop, has done for more years than I can remember.’
Rose peered in through the dirty cobwebbed window and saw axes and swords and picks and shovels and all things mine-like. ‘What’s this then?’ she asked.
‘Look next door.’
She did, and a great brick arch had a sign saying “Oxhead Street Underground”
‘What’s the underground then?’
‘Dwarfs is what it is. They mine, and this is one of their entrances. There are quite a few dotted here and there all over the city. The Assembly gives them contracts for the ore; though only the Gods know what they do with the money. Mind you, if someone got their finger out they could have a nice little transportation service down there. This is one of the shops that supplies them. Mostly they stay underground, but more and more often nowadays you’ll see them on the surface, mostly to drink mind, and boy can they drink. They like spending time in the pubs, but I suppose you know that, seeing that you’ve been working in a pub. Generally, I think they’re nasty little bastards who thankfully keep well out of my way.’
‘Frankie. That’s not nice. I think they’re rather sweet. Short, but sweet.’ She waited, but the joke sailed over Frankie’s head and splattered against the wall.
‘Come on, we’ve got a bit further to go before we come to the weasel’s abode.’
They carried on deeper into the Brews and passed a few more of the slum’s establishments. Rose swore blind that some of the meat on sale would have barked or purred in an earlier form of life, and some of it would definitely have squeaked. One place in particular intrigued her though; it had a sign saying “Colliderscope” and showed an old weather beaten board painted with stars and other astrological symbols. She looked in through the window and saw a couple of people staring into little glass screens.
‘I’m going to have to ask, Frankie; what are they doing?’
Frankie stopped walking and turned back to join her at the window. ‘Well, you know the Universal Collider just outside the city?’
She nodded, everyone knew about that. In the Collider, the universes touched. If you had enough money you could see what would have happened if you had taken a different direction in life, by tuning in to a parallel universe. That was the cheaper option, but still astronomically expensive. The other option used the theory that if you looked through the universes in the right direction, it could create a time loop, and then you might be able to see what could happen in the future. But if the prices they charged for the cheaper option was astronomical, then for this option, they were mind blowing. Only the very rich could afford to even think about using it.
‘The people that run this place say that they have managed to get a link to it, although you can’t choose what to see, you can have a look at what is happening somewhere else. So what they’re doing is hoping against hope that they will see something they can use to their advantage. The thing is; all they’re doing is staring at themselves staring at themselves, so to speak, because their other selves in the parallel universes are doing exactly the same thing as themselves. But it keeps them off the streets.’
‘Er, I think I know what you mean. So if I went in there and had a look in the glass, I would just see me staring back.’
Frankie nodded. ‘If you paid the ten dollars they’re asking for the pleasure.’
‘Ah.’ The penny dropped. ‘But couldn’t I be just staring at a mirror? I mean, how would I know that I was looking at another universe?’
He looked at her knowingly. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that someone is making a lot of money by conning people with a couple of mirrors.’
‘Yes, but how would you know, eh? Tell me that?’
Rose hesitated as she thought, but then Frankie supplied the answer.
‘This is the Brews, Rose; hope doesn’t come cheap.’
They moved on, and soon they were staring up at a dilapidated four storey building which lurched rather than stood. The mortar holding the bricks together had crumbled away, leaving holes everywhere. Most of the windows were boarded up, with the front door, half off its hinges.
‘Here we are. The Weasel’s lair. And, typical of the people we want to speak to, he’s on the top floor. Be careful where you tread, most of the floorboards are rotten.’
Frankie led the way inside to what was once an imposing vestibule but now a hall full of rubbish. A couple of people lay in the corner, sleeping off their indulgences and unaware of their presence. The stairs led up on the right and Frankie gingerly started to climb. Rose followed, being careful to place her feet exactly where Frankie put his.
‘Smells of wee,’ she said, sniffing distastefully.
They continued up to the top floor where a labyrinth of passages led off into distant corners of the house. The boarded up window let in a little dull light through rents in the wood, which vanished after they took the first bend. Frankie fished out a match and sparked it to life. The faint glow showed a couple of doors on either side of them, but he led the way past and turned into another passage. A door blocked the way, and Frankie took a slow breath and hammered on the flaking paintwork.
There was no reply, so after a couple of minutes he tried again.
‘Right, that’s it, time to kick the door in.’
‘He might be out,’ reasoned Rose.
‘He might,’ responded Frankie, with a grin. ‘But let’s find out.’ The match in his hand burned down to his fingers and he let out a curse as he flapped his hand to cool it down. Despite being plunged into darkness, Rose chuckled behind him.
‘Why don’t you just try the door knob?’ she suggested, as he struck another match.
‘Yeah, well. I was just gonna do that.’
He did, and the door clicked and swung open a couple of inches. He turned to Rose and flashed another grin before pushing the door further. It groaned and rasped as it unwillingly opened up enough to let them in. A grubby window in the back wall let in a little grubby light, which matched the very
grubby looking room. Frankie spun around to take stock of all he could see and very quickly wished he hadn’t.
‘Oooooh. That’s nasty.’
Rose turned to where he stared and she too wished she hadn’t. ‘Oh, bollocky, bollocky, bollocks,’ she moaned. She’d seen corpses, loads of times and they didn’t hold much fear for her; but all the ones she had seen had been lying down, agreed not necessarily flat, but she had never seen one standing up before. Admittedly, he wouldn’t have been standing had it not been for the ten inch nails hammered through his wrists, and his thighs, and if it wasn’t for the one that stuck out of his mouth, and for the one protruding from his forehead. She fought down the bile that rose to her throat and took a few moments to settle herself down. ‘I take it that’s our Mr Weasel?’ she ventured, when she felt she could speak at last.
Frankie nodded slowly as he stood in front of the corpse.
‘And I take it that’s not one of his party tricks?’
Frankie raised a laconic eyebrow.
‘Sorry, nerves,’ she explained contritely. ‘I’ll tell you one thing though; I wouldn’t want them to put up my shelves, he’s not even straight.’
Frankie raised the other eyebrow and stared at Rose for a few moments. ‘Just for that you can take off his boots,’ he said eventually.
‘What? Why?’
‘Because someone left a boot-print at the scene, it’s either that or you can turn this place over. Your choice.’
Rose looked around again; the place was a mess. The fug of stale tobacco and body odour assailed her nostrils and she doubted that the window had ever been opened, but underneath that, another smell lurked, indicating that something really unpleasant hid beneath the detritus, and one look at the stained threadbare mattress lying on the floor was enough to make her come to a decision. The boots were the better option.
She crouched down, being careful not to let her knees touch the dirty wooden floor. A little blood pooled beneath the body, but far less than she would’ve thought. Behind her Frankie continuously swore as he fought with the junk. Rose had her own problems though: with Freddie’s thighs nailed to the wall, it made removing his boots somewhat difficult. She untied the laces and sort of twisted his lower legs to slide them off and recoiled as the whiff from his sockless feet hit her nostrils. With that problem successfully negotiated, she took a moment to recover then eased back, looking at what he wore. The trousers were ill fitting but of a good quality and relatively clean, the shirt was cheap and thin and couldn’t be described as anywhere near clean. The two didn’t quite go together.
‘Is there a black jacket amongst that lot?’ she asked, turning her head.
Frankie grunted as a reply before tossing over a matching black jacket. She picked it up and started to examine it. It too was clean and she smiled to herself when she saw the label, the same as the one on the oily shirt: Biggins and Shute of Cavel Row.
‘Where do you think he could have got a posh suit from?’
Frankie turned over a pile of soiled linen and a stack of unwashed plates and quickly wished he hadn’t. ‘Jeez,’ he exclaimed. ‘The bastard. There’s a string of dead rats here, and when I say a string, I mean a string; he’s threaded the whole lot.’
Rose stood up and peered over his shoulder, catching the overpowering nauseating smell, the same underlying smell that she had sensed only a few minutes earlier, and now here she had it in its full undiluted form. ‘Why has he done that?’ she asked, as another bout of nausea churned her stomach.
‘He’s been selling ‘em to the butchers down the road, I reckon, maybe he gets more money if they’re a little high. You just asked me something?’
She coughed and swallowed to calm her stomach down. ‘Yes, where would he get a posh suit from? This comes from the same place as the oily shirt back at the accountant’s.’
‘Oh, does it now? Well, he could have nicked it, but maybe that’s stretching coincidence a little too far. What about the trousers?’
‘The same place, I’m sure. I haven’t looked, but I’m a girl, I can tell these things.’
‘You’d better have a nosey just in case; anyway, there might be a name or sommat on it.’
The look she gave Frankie would have killed a lesser man, but he just grinned and winked at her.
‘I’m sure the Weasel won’t mind.’
‘He might not, but what about me?’
‘Experience, Rose, life’s all about experience. Anyway, you wanted to deal with him, look at the shit that I’m sorting.’
‘All right, all right,’ she said, holding up a placating hand. ‘I’ll take a look if it keeps you happy.’
Rose stood with her hands on her hips looking at Freddie the Weasel and wondering how she could get at the back of his trousers with the minimum of interference. It was going to be difficult whatever way she chose. With him nailed to the wall, the only way she could think of was to undo the fly buttons and drag the back of the trousers around to the side, with luck, she should then be able to see the label, job done. She took a deep breath and crouched down again, hesitating for only a moment before getting down to the unpleasant task. If Freddie had been alive, he wouldn’t have believed his luck as Rose began to untie the string around his waist and then undo the fly. Frankie went very quiet as he watched.
Rose’s eyes widened in shock as the trousers slid down to rest on the nails in his legs. ‘The little shit is not wearing underpants,’ she yelled in surprise.
Frankie moved in a little closer. ‘Jeez,’ he exclaimed. ‘Will you look at that. They should have called him Freddie the Horse. He’s lucky they didn’t nail that to the floor.’
Rose whipped her head around. ‘Frankie,’ she admonished. ‘The poor bastard’s dead.’
‘Yeah, isn’t he just; but a little runt like that! Where’s the justice.’
Rose shook her head and pulled the back of the trousers around into view. Biggins and Shute, Cavel Row, nothing else. ‘There, satisfied?’
‘I was, but now I’m not so sure… Oh, you mean the label.’ He flashed her a grin. ‘Yeah, Biggins and Shute it is. Now when you pull ‘em back up don’t forget to fold it all back in again, can’t have any of that hanging out. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think we’ll bother bringing the trousers back with us. Oh, hang on a minute. You ever seen a white eared elephant?’
Rose shook her head, but then felt that she should have said yes.
Frankie leant over and pulled out the pockets of Freddie’s trousers, then pulled them up, leaving a certain thing hanging out. ‘There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Good, innit?’
‘Frankie, I’m going to give you fair warning. I’m going to remember this.’
Frankie grinned, a genuine grin. ‘Rose, you have the makings of a great investigator. You’re developing just the right amount of cynicism, and it’s still only your first day on the job.’
Rose couldn’t help it; she had to smile.
When Freddie the Weasel regained his modesty, Frankie announced that they’d spent enough time there. They would have a word with a feeler to let them know about Freddie’s demise, but Frankie doubted if the corpse would be still there by the time they got around to dealing with it. The Brews scavengers would be waiting to pounce, and besides, the room would probably be rented out again by nightfall. They still had to visit the carriage-hire firms and it was already well into the afternoon.
‘We’ll dump this lot back at the office first,’ said Frankie, referring to the boots and jacket; MacGillicudy had the oiled soaked shirt back at the station, and he had the handkerchief stuffed into his own pocket. ‘I’ve got to go see my mum today and then I have a date with a lady. If we shake a leg we can get the carriage firms done with time to spare.’
‘Are there many carriage firms in the city?’ asked Rose, taking a gulp of fresh air.
‘Oh yes, but only four that we need to worry about. Most of ‘em hire cheap open carts, but we’re looking for a covered coach, which means expensive. Don
’t worry; this is going to be a piece of piss.’
CHAPTER 4
Cornwallis lifted his head from the desk and realised that he had been asleep for the last hour or so. He rubbed the back of his neck, pleased to note that the headache had now gone. He’d been a fool to drink so much, and he winced when he remembered what Frankie had said; he resolved to find One Eyed Monty and drop him a couple of dollars in recompense. The coffee was still warming on the stove so he poured himself a mug and gulped it down. He looked at the door where he had last seen Rose, remembering the sight of her bottom as she disappeared through. He regretted that he had sent her out with Frankie, but he knew he couldn’t have her with him when he went to the House of Assembly; women were only allowed in to make the tea and clean the privies and he doubted if could have passed her off as a woman who does. Those hallowed corridors were a bastion of all things male, it would cause apoplexy among the older members should Rose appear with all her attributes. Still, he’d try and make up for it later.
Before he went to the Assembly, he would have to go and see Captain Bough at the police station; he needed to know why the case had dropped into his lap and who had ordered it. Someone had, that was for certain. He couldn’t imagine Bough relinquishing his grip on a murder without a serious degree of pressure; he had plenty of resources to deal with it, maybe not as professional as himself, but resources nonetheless.
Scooters Yard Police Station was a large dreary grey building that exuded gloom and despondency. A few steps led up to the big double doors that led in to the reception and Cornwallis bounded up and entered. Bare wooden benches lined the walls and there were three doors; the one to the right meant that if a visitor went through he would be unlikely to see daylight for a very long time, the one to the left meant that the police wanted to speak to you but you had a good chance of going out again, the one in the back wall meant you were safe. A lectern with steps accessed from behind, dominated and loomed over the back wall, so high up that you had to crane your neck to talk to the officer who occupied it. People milled around the busy open area, most with a feeler attached, waiting to hear their fate. The sergeant presiding dealt with it all in a detached manner, indicating with a flick of the wrist which door needed to be opened. Cornwallis barged his way through to the lectern and waited until Sergeant Grinde had finished with the young boy in front.
