by R. N. Morris
He rose slowly from his desk, unable to take his eyes off the telephone, as if it were a malign imp squatting on his desk to curse him.
FORTY-NINE
William Egger, it could be said, was a stubborn bastard.
Despite everything that had happened, he put on his butcher’s apron, his straw boater and went out to stand proudly in front of his family’s shop. The door still had its fractured wooden panel over the broken pane. Unpleasant words had been daubed on the shutters, but that was all right because as he opened them up, he folded the words away.
Mum hadn’t the heart to keep the shop going on her own, that was understandable. And she was reluctant to have him open the door to customers now. ‘You know what happened last time,’ she said ominously as he came back in.
‘What you mean, last time?’
Mum didn’t answer, except to look down at the sawdust on the floor. But he knew what she meant. The shop had been closed since the day of the riot and his father’s death. William felt his lips compress at the memory.
At last his mother met his eye. Her look offered no comfort. ‘It will be even worse now. Now they think you’re responsible for that girl’s death.’
‘They ain’t all bad. We still have friends. And people got to eat.’
His mother shook her head. She could be as stubborn as him in her own way. ‘We’ll have to sell up. There’s no alternative.’
‘Sell the business? Now? Are you mad? We’d have to let it go for a song.’
‘There’s nothing we can do about that.’
‘We can carry on.’
‘We’ve got nothing to sell. What meat they didn’t steal I had to throw away because of the broken glass.’
‘There’s a carcass hanging in the cold room, ain’t there? I can butcher that. Got some trotters we can put out. Pork knuckle. Tripe. Black puddings. There’s liver sausage, bratwurst and salami. Ain’t that what we’re famous for, our salami?’
‘And when that’s gone?’
‘We’ll get another delivery.’
‘Of salami? From Germany, I suppose.’
‘All right. Maybe not salami. But we got suppliers in this country.’
‘It’s throwing money away, William.’
‘What you talking about?’
‘No one will come. Unless it’s to steal it from under our noses.’
‘No. You’re wrong. We’ll open up. Give them a second chance. It’s what Dad would have wanted.’
‘Did you read what they wrote?’
‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll get some paint.’
‘And they’ll write it again, as soon as you’ve painted it over.’
William felt the hopelessness of the situation wash over him. His bottom lip trembled as it had when he was a little boy on the verge of tears. Only now, his whole body began to tremble too.
The strain of the last few days suddenly hit him. He could barely get the words out. ‘But if we don’t … if we don’t carry on … they will have won.’
William mopped the tears from his eyes and stood up straight.
His mother flexed a small wince and disappeared wordlessly into the back. A moment later she came back wearing her apron. She gave a terse, unsmiling nod that was his cue to take his place beside her behind the counter.
It was satisfying to feel once more the sharpened blade of the cleaver pass smoothly through the flesh of a pig. And comforting to be back amongst the smell of meat and blood. Perhaps others might find the smell cloying, but William had been brought up in the midst of it. It had infused his dreams since he was a baby in his cot.
It was the smell of home.
He chose to do the butchering in the shop. For one thing, he didn’t want to leave Mum on her own. But it was also to show the world that it was business as usual. And he didn’t want anyone to think that he was hiding away in the back.
He kept up a steady rhythm with the cleaver. It was delicate work, not what some might think. If you chopped and hacked, you’d be left with mangled fillets, not to mention butchered fingers. It was all in the sharpness of the blade. You had to let the blade do the work for you. It was natural to get into a bit of a rhythm. It was how his body responded to the task, to its repetition, as if making a virtue of its monotony, turning it into a game, or a song. Dad had always sung as he cut up chops. He didn’t know he was doing it, or thought no one could hear him. But William and Mum would raise their eyebrows and smile a colluding smile to one another. Sometimes they couldn’t contain themselves and would burst out laughing.
Dad would look up wonderingly and realize. ‘Ah. And so. I was doing it again, was I? The singing?’
William and Mum would nod in unison, sharing the joke with any customers who might be in the shop. And Dad would go back to his chopping, trying hard this time to work in silence, but before too long he would be humming to himself, and then letting out a few tra-la-las or om-pom-poms, giving a sly wink to any child who happened to be in the shop with its mother, letting them know that he knew what he was doing all along.
Yes, it helped to get into a bit of a rhythm. Perhaps it was simply the difference between a natural butcher and one without talent.
And the product of the rhythm was consistency. Each chop took the same amount of time to cut, and every one weighed the same, to the nearest half an ounce.
The task became hypnotically absorbing. Which helped the time to pass more quickly. And God knew, it was dragging today. As Mum had predicted, there had been no customers. And so, when the shop bell rang at last, he lifted his head hopefully, ready to beam a welcoming smile towards whoever had just come in.
But something was wrong. Something was obviously wrong. Because as soon as the shop bell rang, Mum started screaming.
William’s welcoming smile tensed into a rictus of fear.
But the man did not return his smile. His face was red and set in an angry, clenched grimace. He was advancing towards William with a gun held out in front of him. He stopped just in front of the counter, the arm holding the gun stretched out above William’s chops, so that the barrel was only inches from his face. ‘Where is she? What have you done with her, you brute?’ The man’s voice was high and strained. He wasn’t exactly shouting. He was grinding the words out. His whole body was clenched, including his vocal cords. It was clear that he could hardly speak.
At some point, Mum must have stopped screaming. Because it was very quiet in the shop now. He could hear the man’s heavy, laboured breathing.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. Where’s who?’
‘Mary!’
‘I don’t know no Mary, mate. You got the wrong fella.’
The man shook his head in three quick jerks. ‘No! No, don’t lie. You’ve taken her. I only hope for your sake she’s still alive, otherwise I don’t know what I’ll do.’
‘You deaf? Or mad? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I tell ya, I don’t know no Mary.’
‘Tell me where she is or … or … or …’ The man swung the barrel of the gun towards William’s mother. ‘I shall shoot her, so help me I will.’
‘Don’t you go shooting Mum, now!’
‘Then tell me where Mary is!’
‘Mary! Mary! How many times do I have to tell ya, I don’ know no bloody Mary!’
‘You’ve got her back there, haven’t you? The woman’s in on this too. You’re both German spies. Don’t deny it! Well, I’m going to stop you. I’m going to stop you, I am!’
The man kept the gun trained on Mum. With his free hand he groped for the flap to the counter. His fumbling was to no avail. ‘Let me in, or I’ll shoot her. I will, I’ll do it. I don’t mind shooting a dirty German spy.’
William’s mother began to make a half-keening, half-moaning noise.
‘You leave Mum out of this, do you hear me? And don’t you go calling her no names. She ain’t even German!’
‘Just let me in and take me to Mary.’
‘How many t
imes? There ain’t no Mary here!’
‘Let me in!’
‘All right! Just put the gun down, eh, fella? That’s fair, ain’t it? Put the gun down and you can come back here and have a look. What you say to that?’
The hand holding the gun began to tremble. But the man did not lower his weapon. He merely turned it from William’s mother back to William. ‘I won’t point it at her. But I’m not going to put it down. Not until you show me where you’ve got Mary.’
William didn’t bother to contradict him now. He was getting tired of the man’s stubborn refusal to listen to reason. The time for words was coming to an end. He felt his grip tighten around the handle of the cleaver in his right hand. He kept it down low, out of sight. With his other hand, he reached across and lifted the counter. He took one step to the side to let the man enter.
The man’s arm was shaking violently now. That gun could go off at any moment. All it needed was for the man’s finger to tighten on the trigger in an involuntary spasm. And the gun was once again inches from William’s head. If he was going to act, he had to act now, as the man crossed the threshold of the counter. Leave it any longer and he would see the cleaver in William’s hand.
William gave a desperate, wordless cry. He did not know what he meant by that cry. He hoped perhaps that it might serve as a warning to his mother, that she might take it as her cue to run into the back. Partly, too, it was intended to put the fear of God into this mad fucker. He could tell from the man’s trembling arm that he was already scared. That made him dangerous, but maybe, just maybe, it meant that he lacked the nerve to go through with this terrible endeavour that he had set in motion.
At the same moment as he let out his cry, William pivoted round and ducked his head down, out of the firing line. In one fluid movement, he thrust the meat cleaver blindly out behind him, towards his attacker, its blade angled up in the direction of his thrust.
He did not know, or care, where the blade struck. He only knew that it did, for he felt it meet a sudden resistance. He trusted to the blade. Let the blade do all the work. It was a sharp blade, after all.
There was a weak popping sound, not even as loud as a hand clap. And the faintest possible smell of gunpowder. Something light and tinny clattered to the wooden floor. Then there was the heavy slump of the man going down.
William turned slowly, keeping his meat cleaver arm extended protectively.
The man lay stretched out, his feet behind the counter, his head in the shop. He had a hand to his throat. Blood bubbled out through his fingers. His eyes swam desperately, searching for something to focus on. Searching for his Mary still, no doubt. He strained to sit up, but the effort was too much for him. His lips parted, as if he was about to say something. But instead of words, he coughed a spray of blood into the air.
The shop bell tinkled once again, like a genteel death knell.
William heard the door thrown open with some force.
He looked up from the body on the floor to see his shop fill with policemen.
FIFTY
Quinn covered his face with his hands. A deep groan rumbled in his chest and then vibrated in his throat, rising in pitch and intensity until it was a howl.
He dropped his hands and looked out of the window of the police car into which he had retreated after the discovery of the grim tableau in the pork butcher’s. He could not remain in there with Timberley dead on the floor, William Egger in handcuffs and Egger’s mother inconsolable and barely able to support herself. She had virtually collapsed into the chair that was brought for her.
He watched the small crowd that had gathered. It was amazing how quickly word got about. But really, this was too much. One of the uniformed coppers ought to have seen them off by now. This was a crime scene, not a bloody music hall.
A taxi pulled up and two men got out. One was carrying a camera and tripod. The other he recognized as George Bittlestone, the hack from the Clarion who had written the piece about Egger’s release. Bloody vultures. All the same, Quinn had thought better of Bittlestone.
Quinn got out of the car and approached Bittlestone. ‘This is on you, Bittlestone.’
Noticing the dark mood of the detective, the photographer scuttled away to set up his camera.
Bittlestone squeezed out a tense smile. ‘A pleasure to see you too, Chief Inspector Quinn. What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I saw your last piece.’
‘You’re only upset because I criticized your decision to release Egger. As it turns out, I believe I have been vindicated in my criticism.’
‘I’m upset because a young man is dead. You killed him, Bittlestone. As surely as if you had slashed his artery yourself.’
‘No. The Bosch Butcher from Bush killed him, or so my sources tell me.’
‘Ah, yes. Your sources.’
‘I hope you’re not going to ask me to reveal them.’
‘I’m just warning you.’
‘Warning me? Is that a threat?’
‘Don’t be a fool. I don’t make threats. Whoever’s feeding you information from the investigation, you can’t trust them.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’
‘They got it wrong. William Egger did not kill Eve Cardew.’
‘So you say.’
‘No. It’s not just what I say.’
‘What’s this? Have you found her murderer?’
‘Her father, Pastor Clement Cardew, committed suicide in his church today. We’re not looking for anyone else in connection with his daughter’s death.’
‘My heavens! And when were you intending to share this juicy titbit with the public, Chief Inspector?’
‘Things have happened very quickly. We don’t have conclusive proof that it was Pastor Cardew yet. There are still a few loose ends to tie up. Be careful how you write it. You can cite an unnamed source close to the investigation.’
‘Did he leave a note?’
‘We haven’t found one. But when we do, you’ll be the first to know.’
Bittlestone narrowed his eyes and smiled coquettishly. Quinn was reminded that the man had certain proclivities which placed him on the wrong side of the law. But whatever his differences with Bittlestone, and whatever he wanted from him, he would never use that knowledge against him.
‘You’re suddenly being nice to me. It makes me very suspicious. When you first saw me you wanted to bite my head off.’
‘Come to me, Bittlestone, always come to me. Don’t go to anyone else.’
‘I’m a journalist. I have to get my information from whatever source I can.’
‘There are certain details in the Cardew case which I suspect will not come out officially. His standing in the community will serve to suppress them. As he is dead, he cannot be charged with any crime. He may not even be linked to his daughter’s death.’
Bittlestone gave a wry smile. ‘Intriguing. That even of yours is intriguing. You seem to be hinting at other crimes.’
Quinn raised his eyebrows and gave the most minimal of nods.
‘I see. And you would be prepared …’
Quinn’s nod this time was minutely more pronounced. Even so, it would not have been noticed by anyone watching.
‘And in return for this, you would expect the name of my source? But you do understand, Chief Inspector, that places me in the most dreadful quandary. A journalist must never reveal his sources. You know that.’
Quinn gestured for Bittlestone to give him his ear. He leant forward and murmured into it. ‘Another girl has gone missing. That’s what this is all about in there. But Egger had nothing to do with it.’
Quinn straightened up.
Bittlestone regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Her name. The name of the girl who’s gone missing. You’d give me that first? Is that what you’re saying? Is that how badly you want this?’
‘Who is it? Who is your informant?’
Bittlestone winced. ‘Oh, I’m so tempted, so tempted. Can’t I offer you money, Chief In
spector? That’s usually what you people want.’
‘Is it DC Willoughby?’
Bittlestone made a gesture with his hand. Higher.
‘Leversedge?’
Again the same gesture.
‘Coddington?’
Bittlestone closed his eyes in an extended blink and then stared expectantly into Quinn’s eyes. ‘Well? Her name?’
‘But Coddington was off the case by the time we found Millicent Jones and the meat cleaver?’
‘Well, I don’t know, he must have heard it from someone who was still on the investigation. What’s her name, Chief Inspector?’
‘Mary.’
‘Don’t you have a surname?’
It was Quinn’s turn to wince. But soon it would be impossible to keep the information out of the news anyhow. He was just giving Bittlestone a head start on the inevitable. ‘Ibbott. I, double B, O, double T. I’ll write down her address. Tell her mother I sent you. Tell her I said it would help to find Mary if we put her photograph in the paper.’
‘And the pastor?’
‘We’ll talk about him another time.’
The crowd suddenly livened up and Quinn saw that the door to the shop was opening, tentatively, as if whoever was coming out was unsure how doors operated. A uniformed policeman poked his head out and surveyed the crowd with a disapproving glower. ‘All right, you lot. Hop it.’
But the crowd was not in the mood to hear such discouraging words.
‘’Ave you got ’im? ’Ave you got the Bosch Butcher?’
‘Shouldna oughta let ’im ou’ in the first place!’
This observation was met with laughter, which soured the copper’s expression even more. ‘Clear off, I say, or I’ll haul the lot of you off in the back of that Black Maria.’ As if to confirm his threat, the nearest horse stamped a hoof and lowered its head in a majestic nod. The crowd didn’t exactly disperse, but it thinned out enough to satisfy the copper, who held the door fully open. A moment later, William Egger was manhandled out of the shop, his head heavy with shock, hands cuffed behind his back. He walked with stumbling step, partly because he was being pushed along by an officer behind him, and partly because he was unable to take in where he was or what was happening to him. The man was in a daze.