by Frank Tayell
“Halt! Advance and be recognised.”
“I’m not sure that attitude will do much for the city’s reputation as a tourist destination,” Isaac said.
“Quiet,” Mitchell said. They walked closer, stopping twenty yards from the sentries.
“I know you,” the gate-captain said. “You’re Constable Deering.”
Ruth squinted ahead, but the glare of the spotlight made it impossible to make out his features. “I am,” she said. “This is official police business.”
Following a motioned instruction that Ruth couldn’t see, the light swung away from them. She blinked, still blinded, but as her eyesight returned, she saw that the gate-captain was CPO Rubenstein, the senior NCO in the military police.
“I’m Captain Henry Mitchell. We’re on the trail of a killer.”
“Another one?” Rubenstein asked.
“It’s the same case,” Ruth said. “Mr Wilson’s murder.”
“Ah. I thought you’d arrested the people responsible,” Rubenstein said.
“It’s a long story,” Ruth said.
“And one we don’t have time for,” Mitchell said. “Spread the word to the other gates, no one is to leave without my authorisation. Anyone who tries is to be detained. The same goes for anyone trying to get in.”
“And what’s your authorisation?” Rubenstein asked.
“The password of the day is Valencia,” Mitchell said. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from an inside pocket. “Here.”
“Signed by the prime minister? That’ll do,” Rubenstein said.
“Good,” Mitchell said. “Send a runner to the castle. Wake the admiral and call out the guard. We may have need of them tonight.”
They left the gate and headed to the police station.
“That man is in the military police,” Ruth said.
“So?” Isaac asked.
“I mean, the sentries are usually just ordinary Marines,” Ruth said. “If CPO Rubenstein is doing that duty, then does that mean the Marines have been sent to France?”
“Probably,” Mitchell said.
Ruth glanced back at the gate. “Sir, can we… I mean… Are you sure we’re going to beat those pirates.”
“Time will tell,” Mitchell said.
Which wasn’t the reassuring answer Ruth had hoped for.
Dusk had turned to night when they reached the police station. Sergeant Kettering was there alone, sitting behind the duty-desk with a stack of papers in front of her.
“Ruth? Captain Mitchell? You, sir, I don’t know, but why are you all here? Is it a new case?” Kettering asked.
“It’s more or less the same one,” Mitchell said. “The murder of Mr Wilson. Those smugglers were sending bullets to Twynham where they’d be sold in a pub. The names of the purchasers were recorded so they could be blackmailed at a later date. Adamovitch is dead, as is Makepeace, the assassin who shot Yanuck. The man who killed them is Emmitt.”
“The man who tried to shoot the prime minister?” Kettering said. “You think he came to Dover?”
“All things are possible,” Mitchell said. “The final piece of the puzzle, the last suspect alive, is the person who sent the telegram from here warning Makepeace that Adamovitch and Yanuck were on that train.”
“I followed that trail to a dead-end,” Kettering said. “They’ve been trialling a new pre-payment scheme for short messages. You can buy the telegrams pre-stamped but with a blank message, then just drop them in a slot outside the office. I can say that the message was placed no more than thirty minutes before it was sent, but that’s all I’ve found.”
“We think it was Mr Watanabe,” Ruth said. “And that Mr Wilson was the one who made the false bottoms for metal barrels, the ones they used to smuggle the bullets.”
“Watanabe? Why?” Kettering asked.
“Money,” Ruth said. “He was rich, now he’s poor.”
“Sadly, that’s motive enough for most people,” Kettering said.
“Do you know where he lives?” Mitchell asked.
“I’ve got it… somewhere… Ah, here,” Kettering pulled a piece of paper from the pile. “But he’ll be at work now. He supervises the late shift. Do you want backup? I can send for some sailors.”
“Four of us should be enough,” Mitchell said. “I’d rather do this quickly and quietly.”
Twenty minutes later, the three officers and Isaac were in sight of the entrance to the Sprocket and Sprung workshop. The lights were on, but except for a streetlamp at the junction, the rest of the road was dark. Inside, a silhouetted figure moved across the wide windows of the workshop.
“No sentries,” Isaac said. “How do you want to do this?”
“Properly,” Mitchell said. “Isaac, take the back door. Mr Watanabe is our suspect. Others might be involved, or they all might be innocent. Sergeant Kettering and I will go in through the front, loud and fast. Hopefully, the guilty will bolt. Deering, you come in right behind us and take up station by the front door. Remember, all of you,” he added, though he looked at Isaac, “the gates are sealed, the coast is patrolled, there is no escape from Dover, and so there’s no need to take any risks. Everyone clear? Everyone ready?”
“As always, Henry,” Isaac said. “Give me three minutes.” He eased himself backward, and jogged silently away down the street.
“He’s an odd fish,” Kettering said. “Where did you find him?”
“Out in the wilderness,” Mitchell said. “We can trust him.”
Kettering gave a noncommittal grunt but said no more. Ruth scanned the rooftops, but if Emmitt was up there, it was unlikely she’d spot him.
“It’s time,” Mitchell said.
He led the way, Kettering close behind, their weapons held tight in front. Ruth’s own revolver was already a heavy weight in her hands. As their boots hit cracked concrete, they sounded as loud as a drum, but no one came to the warehouse door before they reached it.
Mitchell held up a hand with three fingers. Two. One. He pushed the door inward.
“Police!” he yelled, as he ran into the well-lit workspace. Kettering was two paces behind. Ruth sprinted in, revolver raised, and stopped just inside the door. She swung her weapon left and right, but there was no danger that she could see, only confused faces that were turning to fear as the guns were pointed at them. No one was running, not even Mr Watanabe. He sat at a workbench, one hand on a vice, the other holding a rasp, a heavy leather apron covering his clothes. There were five other workers in the room, all at similar workstations, holding similar tools, wearing similar expressions of shock.
Kettering made a beeline for Watanabe as Mitchell moved to the back of the room.
“Who else is here?” Kettering asked.
“No one,” Watanabe said. “It’s just us. Why? What’s going on?”
“Ruth, go to the back,” Mitchell said. “Check with Isaac whether anyone ran. Sergeant, watch them.”
As Mitchell searched the rest of the workshop, Ruth went through the stockroom to the back door. It was unlocked. She pushed. There was no sign of Isaac. She took a step into the alley, thinking, for a moment, that he’d sped off in pursuit of someone.
“Is it over?” Isaac asked stepping out of the shadows.
Ruth nearly jumped. She lowered her gun. “Watanabe is inside. Did anyone run?”
“Not a soul,” Isaac said.
They went back inside.
“There’s no one else here,” Mitchell said. “Sergeant, Isaac, watch these people. Mr Watanabe, I’d like a word, please.”
Mitchell took Watanabe into Mrs Illyakov’s office. Ruth followed.
The office had changed since she’d first seen it.
“What happened to the paintings?” Ruth asked, pointing at the blank wall.”
“Your sergeant took them into evidence,” Watanabe said. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”
Mitchell looked around the office, then at Watanabe. “Do you know a man named Makepeace?”
“
No,” Watanabe said. “Should I?”
“What do you do here, Mr Watanabe?” Mitchell asked.
Ruth looked around the office. Without the paintings, the stark furnishings made it look utilitarian to the point of anonymous.
“We mend things,” Watanabe said. “Repair things. Whatever people need.”
“And who decides which of the staff work on which projects?” Mitchell asked.
“That depends on who is busy when the order comes in,” Watanabe said. “Really, what’s going on? We are very busy tonight. More so than usual, we received a shipment from the Navy this evening. Tools and equipment from Calais. It needs to be repaired and shipped out with the next group of reinforcements.”
“If you’re so busy, where’s Mrs Illyakov?” Ruth asked.
“I don’t know,” Watanabe said. “And nor do I know where Jennings or Briars are.”
“When did you last see her?” Mitchell asked.
“About two hours ago. No, a little longer. A telegram arrived. She disappeared.”
“Along with two of your staff?” Mitchell asked.
“No,” Watanabe said. “Their shifts hadn’t started then. They should have begun work an hour ago.”
Mitchell crossed to the desk. He checked the wastepaper bin, then the drawers. “No sign of a telegram. It arrived two hours ago?”
“Around then,” Watanabe said.
Leaving Sergeant Kettering to guard the workshop and its employees, they went to the telegraph office. When messages came in, they were transcribed into a log-book. Mitchell ran his finger down the entries.
“It’s one word,” he said. “Run.”
“Who sent it?” Ruth asked.
“Makepeace,” Mitchell said. “It was sent two hours and…” Mitchell glanced at the clock. “Three hours and two minutes ago.”
“Long after Makepeace was dead,” Isaac said. “And while we were on our way here.”
“Send a telegram to Twynham,” Mitchell said to the operator. “Priority message to Sergeant Riley, Police House. Find out who sent the telegram to Illyakov. And I need a runner. You,” he pointed at a woman, the youngest employee there. “Pen. Paper. Someone. Now!” He scrawled a note. “Take that to the admiral up at the castle. Go.”
When she was gone, Mitchell led them outside, but only onto the street.
“Are we going to check Illyakov’s home?” Ruth asked.
“If you were her, is that where you’d go?” Mitchell asked, watching the door.
“I suppose not,” Ruth said. “Maybe to collect a few things, but then I’d leave the city. I don’t know where I’d go, though.”
“Right,” Mitchell said. “Where is there to run to?”
“London,” Isaac said. “If I were running from here, that’s where I’d go. There’s nothing but flooded streets and wild animals, but that makes it a good place to hide.”
“London? Maybe,” Mitchell said. He turned to Ruth. “If you were her, which way you go, which gate would you take?”
“Um… west, I suppose. The Marines and Navy have a training run to the north. Some go out at dawn, others at dusk. You have to get ten miles before you get some privacy. That’s why they call the railway entrance The Lover’s Door, but we’d have seen them if they went that way.”
“The Lover’s Door?” Isaac asked. “There’s more to Dover than it would first appear. Westward, then?”
They jogged to the gate and reached it ten minutes later.
“Did a woman called Illyakov come through here?” Mitchell asked.
“About five-one, fifty-five years old. Petite, bony, but with broad shoulders. Has blonde-white hair,” Ruth said.
“Probably travelling with two men,” Isaac added.
“About an hour and a half ago,” the gate-captain said. “That’s pretty much all the traffic we’ve had.”
“On foot, or on bikes?” Mitchell asked.
“On foot,” the gate-captain said. “I reminded them that the gates would be closing. They said they weren’t going out for long.”
“Did they say where they were going, what they were doing?” Mitchell asked.
“She said something about a business decision to make. I didn’t really ask.”
“Were they carrying anything?” Isaac asked. “Were they armed?”
“Not that I could tell,” the gate-captain said.
Mitchell scrawled a note. “Take that to the admiral,” Mitchell said. “I want twenty Marines on our heels. Fully armed, and expecting trouble. The woman is suspected of working with the group in Calais. The prime minister wants them alive for questioning. And remember that we’re ahead of you, so keep your fingers off triggers. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
They borrowed three bicycles from the guards, and cycled along the dark road, away from the lights, not slowing until they reached the ruined lorry close to the cliff-top spot where Mr Wilson had drawn his inspiration. Mitchell slowed, dismounted, and leaned his bike against the lorry.
“It’s too dark,” Mitchell said. “On bikes, we’re going to miss any trail they’ve left.”
“You know, Henry,” Isaac said, “I’m reminded that Emmitt used a truck to get away from the north after he ambushed that train. For Illyakov to have understood the full import of a one-word message, she had to have planned an escape. In which case, though they may have been on foot when they left Dover, I doubt they stayed that way for long.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ruth said. “And, because everyone goes back into the city at night, there won’t be anyone to hear the sound of an engine.”
“We’ll walk this road until it curves to the north,” Mitchell said. “We’ll aim for the garrison around the Channel Tunnel. If we’ve found no sign of them by then, we’ll detach as many sailors and Marines as can be spared and have them tear up the countryside until they find tyre marks. By now they’ll be gone, of course.”
“And you know where they’ll have gone,” Isaac said.
“London,” Mitchell said. “I know. But there’s no safety there. If that’s where Illyakov has gone, there may be no need to go into the ruins to search for her.”
“London’s that bad?” Ruth asked.
“Not all of it,” Mitchell said. “But you don’t know which part will kill you until after it’s happened. The streets are flooded. Half the buildings will collapse if you brush against them. Those that are still sound have become home to wild beasts long ago escaped from zoos. It’s where the truly desperate run, and I’ve followed a few into its ancient streets, but there’s no haven there. More pertinently, the Navy maintain a garrison on the Thames. Even if Illyakov escapes to that city, she won’t escape from it.”
Ruth glanced south, towards the inky blackness of the ocean’s waves. She could hear them crashing against the beach, and she was reminded of one of her earlier suspicions, that of pirate raiders coming ashore. If Illyakov had planned an escape, wouldn’t she have thought beyond simply getting away from Dover?”
“Ready?” Mitchell asked.
Ruth drew her revolver. Mitchell drew his sidearm. Isaac extracted his monstrous hand-cannon from the depths of his coat.
“If I’d known we were hunting bear, I’d have brought my bag of tricks. Here, a light to shine in the darkness.” He passed Ruth a small flashlight. “After you, Henry.”
They walked by moonlight, their torches mostly off, though occasionally flashing on when Isaac or Mitchell thought they spotted a trail. Ruth kept her eyes on the trees surrounding them. There was something familiar about the route. Obviously, it was the same one she’d walked with Mitchell when they were tracking Adamovitch only a few days before, but there was the vague shape of an older memory, too.
As they left Dover behind, the wind picked up, freshening the air. It was a chill wind, but it came from inland so didn’t bring the sound of artillery from the continent. Ruth shivered at the thought, then turned her mind to the present, and her attention back to the woodland.
“The cottage where we found Adamovitch is a quarter mile over there,” he whispered, pointing into the dense thicket of trees. “There are footprints. They’re fresh.”
“Going to Adamovitch’s cottage?” Ruth asked.
“No,” Mitchell said. “They’re heading along the road. Three sets. Only three sets. One small, two large. I’m going to guess that’s our quarry.”
“You spotted those in the dark?” Ruth asked.
“Only because I was expecting them,” Mitchell said. “I think I’ve worked it out. Up until now, we couldn’t because we only had half the pieces. The other half can’t be too far from here. Due west, more or less, is Folkestone and the garrison for the Channel Tunnel. Whether it was Yanuck, Emmitt, Illyakov, or Longfield, they didn’t want everything hidden in one place. The second place can’t be too close to the garrison, but it can’t be too far from here.”
It wasn’t. Ruth spotted the light first, when they were another five hundred yards along the road. It came from deep inside the new-growth forest.
“There’s no honest purpose for someone to be out in these woods after dark,” Mitchell whispered.
“It might be pirate-raiders,” Isaac said. “Come ashore to wreak havoc behind our lines.” He jutted his head towards Ruth.
“The Marines can’t be more than ten minutes behind us,” Ruth said hurriedly. “Whether it’s Illyakov or pirates, they’ll run when they hear the troops coming along this road. We have to stop them.”
“She’s right,” Mitchell said. “All we need to do is confirm the threat, and then pin them down. But remember the pub, remember the courthouse, there could be traps ahead.”