by R. N. Morris
He only seemed to come to his senses when he caught sight of Quinn. Egger shuffled to a halt and stared uncomprehendingly into Quinn’s eyes, as if he expected to find some explanation for what had happened there. ‘It was a cap gun. I di’n’ know it was a cap gun. Wha’ was ’e doin’ with a cap gun, the bloody fool?’
Quinn shook his head, but had no words.
The uniformed officers led him away and bundled him into the Black Maria.
A moment later Leversedge came out, ducking his head through the doorway and blinking in the sunlight like a troglodyte emerging. Quinn beckoned him over. Leversedge’s expression remained wary.
‘How did Willoughby get on with the Sunday school registers?’
‘Nothing. No mention of Millicent Jones. There’s nothing linking her to Cardew.’
Quinn nodded as if he had been expecting this.
Leversedge hesitated before going on: ‘And another thing.’
‘What?’
‘I just had a word with one of my sergeants. We had the report in from the fingerprint boffins. On the meat cleaver that was found.’
Quinn felt a tightening in his chest. He tried to draw breath but there was nothing there.
‘They found his prints on it. Egger’s.’
‘Who told him? Did you tell him?’
‘What?’
‘Did you tell Coddington about the cleaver?’
‘No.’
‘Someone did. He was the one who leaked it to the Clarion.’
‘It wasn’t me.’ Leversedge spoke quietly, firmly, holding Quinn’s gaze.
‘So who did?’
Leversedge shrugged. ‘Who says anyone did?’
Quinn angled his head as he took in what Leversedge was saying. He nodded for him to go on.
FIFTY-ONE
Leversedge looked up at the door of the White Hart pub in Bishopsgate as it swung open. A small rabble of squaddies burst in, bringing with them an air of hard-edged, defiant hilarity. They were on a pub crawl, evidently. Filling their last night in London with the noise of their unravelling swagger. Their eyes were urgent and hungry, latching on to every object that came into their line of sight as if it owed them something. You felt their sense that this might be not just their last night in London, but their last night on earth.
Before their entrance there had been an air of sullen determination to the early evening crowd of regulars, who seemed almost professional in their focused dedication to the task of drinking themselves to oblivion. Solitary drinkers for the most part, or men who huddled together but had nothing left to say to one another.
There were two pots of pale ale on the table in front of Leversedge, so far untouched. And the seat opposite him was empty.
Leversedge consulted his pocket watch. It was five after seven. He felt a flurry of apprehension.
Then a familiar voice nearby made him look up. ‘Thanks for the pint.’
‘You’re late.’
‘You’re late, sir,’ Coddington corrected, as he slipped into his seat. ‘I’m still your governor, Leversedge.’
Leversedge shrugged and picked up his own pint. ‘Cheers.’
Coddington took a deep gulp of his beer, before wiping the foam from his moustache on the cuff of his herringbone ulster. ‘You do realize you’re breaking the law, don’t you?’
‘How’s that?’
‘The Defence of the Realm Act 1914 makes it an offence to buy a pal a drink.’
‘Are we pals? I thought you were my governor?’
Coddington chuckled noiselessly. ‘We can still be pals, can’t we? Even if I’m your governor.’
‘Well, you’ve still got the disciplinary to get through.’
‘That won’t be any problem. Once they see how Quinn’s fucked up.’
‘It doesn’t look good for him, that’s for sure.’
‘So that explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Why you wanted to meet. All that time, not a word from you, not a peep, not a dicky bird … then all of a sudden …’ Coddington put on a high-pitched ingratiating voice which was evidently intended as an impression of his companion: ‘Dear Codders, long time no see. How d’you fancy meeting for a pot of ale?’
‘You know how it is. I’ve been busy. With the case.’
‘Busy fucking it up.’
‘I was just doing what I was told. What else could I do?’
‘I know you.’ Coddington’s tone turned nasty. ‘Always looking for the main chance. What’s best for DI Leversedge? That’s all you care about. Threw in your lot with the new boss, didn’t you? I can see it now. Nothing for your old pal Codders. When I needed you most, were you there for me? Were you buggery.’
‘I had to be careful. Anyhow, I’m here now.’
‘When it’s all going to shit for you.’
‘Not for me, for Quinn.’
‘Trying to get back in my good books, ain’t ya?’
‘Why d’you bother coming if you’re just going to give me grief?’
‘Maybe I like giving you grief. Maybe it makes me happy, giving you grief.’ Coddington was enjoying himself. ‘Maybe I want to hear you say it.’
‘Say what?’
‘Sorry.’
Leversedge lifted the pot to his lips and muttered his apology.
‘Didn’t quite catch that.’
‘I said, sorry.’
‘Sorry what?’
‘Sorry, guv.’
‘Sorry, guv for what?’
‘Sorry, guv, for …’ Leversedge broke off and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘Sorry, guv, for doubting you.’
‘All right. Sorry, guv, for doubting you.’
‘I can’t wait to hear Sir Edward Henry say that.’
‘You think you’re going to get an apology out of him?’
‘I’d better, or there’ll be hell to pay.’ Coddington stabbed an angry finger towards Leversedge. Remembering himself, he relaxed back into his seat. ‘Nah, don’t you worry, he’ll be down on bended knee begging me to come back. After that fucking loony Quinn gets his comeuppance. That reminds me. You know why I like this pub?’
Leversedge shook his head.
‘The old Bedlam Hospital used to be around here, di’n’ it. Where they put all the mad bastards like ’im.’
‘So?’
‘Every time I come ’ere, I like to think of Quinn locked up in the loony bin. He’ll be back there soon enough, you mark my words. He’ll lose his fucking marbles for good this time.’
‘He’s not happy, I’ll tell you that much.’
‘Music to my ears, that is. I’ll drink to that. I’ll fucking drink to that.’
‘Still, he might just wriggle out of it.’
‘What do you mean, wriggle out of it? He’s fucking fucked, he is. You got the meat cleaver, di’n’ you?’
‘Yeah, but …’
‘What do you mean, yeah but? That fucking proves it. That proves Egger’s guilty.’
‘The way Quinn sees it, a good barrister will argue it proves nothing. May even get it dismissed as evidence.’
‘Dismissed? What you talking about? It’s got Egger’s prints all over it!’
‘I wish. That’d make our job easier, I’m telling you. Nah, it’s been wiped clean. No prints on it at all.’
Coddington’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re fucking having a larf, ain’t you? What you mean, no prints on it?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you. It’s clean.’
‘That’s fucking Quinn what’s done that, that is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Cleaned the Bosch’s prints off it, didn’t he?’
‘Nah. Quinn’s not the type. He’s as straight as they come.’
‘Straight? Quinn? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘I’m telling you, he’s not the sort as tampers with the evidence. He believes in cracking the case. Fair and square. Find the killer and prove it. That’s his way.’
�
��Bollocks. He’s as bent as the rest of us.’
‘What d’you mean? I’m not bent.’
Coddington gave another noiseless chuckle. ‘If you say so.’ His eyes scanned the pub quickly. ‘You don’t have to pretend with me. I know exactly what you’re like. Not above planting the odd stolen necklace or bloody handkerchief yourself, are you?’
Leversedge stiffened. ‘I only ever did what you told me.’
‘No need to be like that about it, old chap. We did what was necessary. Sometimes you have to give justice a helping hand. She’s a blind old bitch after all. That’s how I know Quinn wiped the meat cleaver.’
‘What do you mean?’
Coddington leant forward over the table and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘Because I know for a fact that the butcher’s prints were on it.’
‘How could you know that?’
‘Because I took that cleaver out of the fucker’s shop and put it there myself.’
‘You? I don’t understand.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Leversedge. Do I have to spell it out for you?’
Leversedge froze, his pint pot halfway to his mouth. ‘For Christ’s sake, you didn’t?’
There was a burst of raucous laughter from the pub-crawling squaddies. It was Leversedge’s turn for his mouth to hang open.
‘Don’t look at me like that. I had to, di’n’ I? I had to nail that bastard Quinn. Nail him good and proper. He won’t come back after this.’
‘But you didn’t kill her? You didn’t kill Millicent Jones?’
Coddington cast a furtive glance about. ‘Keep your fucking voice down. She was a fucking whore anyhow. They all are. She had it coming. They all fucking do.’
‘Jesus Christ, guv.’
‘You’re not going soft on me, are you, Leversedge? We’ve all done it. We’ve all planted evidence to get the right result.’
‘But this is more than planting evidence.’
Coddington beckoned for Leversedge to get closer. ‘There’s just two people know about this. You and me. So if even a whisper of this gets out, I’ll know who to come for.’
At that moment, a man seated at the table behind Leversedge stood up. If Coddington paid any attention to him at all, it was to dismiss him as another drunk steadying himself for a stagger towards the bar. The man had his back to them. He was dressed in a Norfolk jacket with a workman’s cap on his head.
The man turned around slowly to face Coddington.
A look of horror appeared on Coddington’s face. ‘What’s that fucker doing here?’
‘Albert Robert Herbert Coddington, I arrest you for the murder of Millicent Jones.’ Silas Quinn lifted a police whistle to his mouth and blew one long, sharp blast. All the several doors to the public bar crashed open. Uniformed bobbies burst in to position themselves at every exit.
Suddenly the pub fell quiet. It took the raucous soldiers a moment longer than everyone else to realize what was going on, but eventually even they were subdued.
A snarl of disgust contorted Coddington’s features. ‘Fucking traitor.’
Leversedge met his gaze and drew himself up defiantly. Inchball appeared at his side, followed by Willoughby.
‘You too, eh, boy?’
‘It’s over, Coddington,’ said Quinn.
‘Over is it, Quinn? Over, you say? Nah, it ain’t over yet, not by a long chalk.’ Coddington’s hand disappeared into his ulster and came out clutching a revolver. He held the gun out in front of him, levelled at Quinn’s head.
Coddington’s hand shook violently as he squeezed the trigger. There was the sound of glass smashing and all around the pub men hit the floor, even the pub-crawling squaddies. Quinn alone did not flinch.
The smell of gunshot hung in the air. The weapon in Coddington’s hand was oscillating wildly now, his arm pivoting like a mechanical part caught between two opposing magnetic fields.
The silence in the aftermath of the gunshot was profound.
Coddington glared incredulously at his enemy, still standing unscathed before him. A moment later, he caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. His legs buckled as an unseen force crashed into them. The gun flew out of his hand and clattered away out of sight. Coddington looked down to see Sergeant Inchball’s plunging back as he rugby-tackled him to the floor.
FIFTY-TWO
Quinn had never hated a murderer the way he hated Coddington.
Usually he felt some degree of fascination towards the men he was pitted against but with Coddington there was only hatred. Of course, he had hated the man before he knew he was a murderer, but with that discovery, he might have expected a grain of fascination to work its way into his emotions. But no, his hatred was pure and absolute. He could barely bring himself to look at him.
‘What have you done with her?’
They had him handcuffed in the back of a moving Black Maria. Inchball and Willoughby were seated on either side of Coddington, Quinn and Leversedge facing him. The vehicle jolted and rattled as it raced along. It was not the ideal setting for an interrogation but there was no time to waste. The jaunty clop of the two-horse team reverberated in the dark drum of the interior, drowning out Quinn’s thoughts. They were heading back to the Yard, but if they got any information out of Coddington on the way about Mary’s whereabouts, they would divert.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Mary Ibbott.’
‘I don’t know no Mary Ibbott.’
‘Don’t lie, Coddington. Things are bad enough for you already.’
Coddington gave a bitter laugh.
‘I’ll get it out of him,’ said Inchball darkly.
‘Guv, you’ve got to see,’ said Leversedge.
‘Don’t guv me.’
‘This is a chance for you to make amends.’
‘What do I have to make amends for?’
‘Murder.’
Coddington stared deep into the eyes of his former friend. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You never did. We make the rules. We are the law. We decide who’s guilty, who’s not. I did what I had to do. That’s not murder. That’s police work.’
‘You’re not police. You’re a disgrace.’
‘Just tell us,’ said Quinn. ‘Is she still alive?’
‘How the fuck would I know? I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
There was a break in the interrogation. The relentless pounding of hooves filled in the pause.
Then Willoughby spoke up: ‘I used to look up to you. Wanted to be like you. One day, I thought, one day, I might make it. Inspector, maybe even Chief Inspector. If I worked hard enough. If I kept my wits about me. If I could learn from the best. Learn from you. You’ve taken all that away from me. There’s nothing left, nothing. Tell us where she is. It won’t make it right. But there’ll be one tiny little bit of you I can still respect.’
Coddington held a wince as he looked the young detective in the eye at last. ‘I wish I could, lad. I wish I knew. But I’m telling you the truth, God’s honest. On my life, on my mother’s life, whatever’s happened to this girl, I don’t know nothing about it. I swear to you I don’t.’
Back at his desk, Quinn breathed deeply and stared at the telephone on his desk for a heavy moment before picking up the mouthpiece.
‘Mrs Ibbott …’
‘Oh, Mr Quinn.’
‘Silas, I thought we said you should call me Silas.’
‘Oh, Silas. Have you found her?’
He could not imagine what in his voice had given her that idea. ‘Not … yet.’
‘Oh, Silas!’
‘She was not there, at the butcher’s shop where … where Mr Timberley had gone. And another lead … came to nothing. I’m so sorry.’ Quinn broke off. ‘Mrs Ibbott, I have to tell you something. It’s about Mr Timberley … We were too late. There was nothing we could do.’
‘What? I don’t understand. What are you saying?’
‘Mr Timberley is dead, Mrs Ibbott. I�
�m so frightfully sorry.’
‘Dead? He can’t be.’
‘It was all really just a terrible accident. He had … well, the other man thought it was a gun, but actually it was just a toy. It was all so unnecessary. So stupid and unnecessary.’
‘Oh, Silas. Whatever will we do?’
‘Is there anything you can think of, anything at all, that could give us some clue as to where she might be?’ But just as he asked the question, the answer came to him.
Quinn boarded just as the station master blew his whistle. He had to walk the length of the train, looking into every compartment for a vacant seat. Most of the other passengers were in khaki. And, as far as he could tell, most of them were drunk. It was the last train back to Colchester that night.
He found a compartment where one soldier had his feet up on the opposite seat, which was otherwise occupied by his kit bag. Quinn could have chosen to stand in the corridor. Instead he slid open the compartment door.
The soldier opened one eye and glanced up at Quinn discouragingly. He made no move to sit up.
‘Excuse me, do you mind?’
‘Do I mind what?’ The fellow spoke in a low, aggressive growl.
‘Do you mind moving your feet? And your bag, of course.’
The other soldiers in the compartment regarded Quinn with hostility.
‘Yes, I do mind, as it happens.’
‘Well, I will move your bag for you, if you like, but you must move your own feet.’
‘Don’t you touch my fucking kit.’
‘Listen, I don’t want any trouble. It’s just that I’m tired. I’m very, very tired. I’ve had a hard day. I’ve seen two men die and I’m trying to find a young girl who’s gone missing. Here’s, what, ten shillings for you to buy yourself and your mates a drink on me the next time you’re out on a spree. Please, let me have that seat.’
It was a clever move to include the mates in the offer. The rest of the compartment seemed to be warming to the idea of the man in the herringbone ulster having a seat.