The Calling

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The Calling Page 13

by Philip Caveney


  Seventeen

  The Hippodrome

  The portal was waiting for them out in the yard, hanging a few inches above the stone flags, shimmering and rippling on the empty air and making that high-pitched screeching sound. Through the opening, Ed could see another location. On a short stretch of road that ran beside some park railings, there was a huge three-storey building of red brick. It looked totally anonymous and not what he’d been expecting at all. The words ‘Hulme Hippodrome’ had made him imagine a huge glitzy place but this looked like any old deserted warehouse.

  Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  Ed nodded, so Sherlock took a breath and stepped forward. Once again there was that curious melting sensation, the feeling that all of Ed’s atoms were being erased and replaced. He had the same sensation of standing on the air before tarmac appeared beneath the soles of his shoes and there was that brief ripping sound from just behind him. This time he remembered to look around quickly, but as far as he could see there was nobody here to observe their arrival. The area looked deserted.

  ‘Come on,’ said Sherlock and they walked along the street towards what must have been the building’s boarded-up entrance, which was plastered with layers of graffiti. Sherlock examined the entrance but found no easy way in.

  ‘The man on the phone said something about a door round the side,’ Ed reminded him. He led the way along the front and around the corner, where a narrow alley ran up the side of the theatre. They soon found another boarded-up, slogan-scrawled entrance, but when they examined it closer they found that the board was secured only at one corner and could be easily swung aside. They stepped into a gloomy entranceway and hesitated for a moment before Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and clicked a torch app, which sent a powerful beam of light ahead of them.

  They passed through another doorway and found themselves in the building’s huge interior. They paused and Sherlock sent the beam of light in all directions, giving them some idea of the scale of the place.

  ‘Wow,’ muttered Ed. The humble exterior had given no clue to the sheer majesty that lay within. It was a massive old theatre, with a stage framed by a gigantic decorative arch. In front of the stage was an open space.

  ‘That must be where the pipe organ was located,’ said Sherlock knowingly. He sent the torch beam around in a slow circle, revealing rows and rows of red velvet seats, once luxurious, but now liberally spotted with dollops of white bird droppings. As if to accentuate the point there was a brief flutter of wings and a pigeon flapped frantically away from the torch beam and off into the gloom.

  Sherlock reached into a pocket and took out his pipe. There was a soft humming sound as the perspex visor slid down from his hat brim and then he was reading aloud to Ed, snippets from the article he could see onscreen. ‘The Hulme Hippodrome. Opened in 1901, now a grade II listed building. Not that you’d guess from the state of it! All the greats have performed here, over the years. Dame Nellie Melba. Laurel and Hardy. The Beatles… whoever they were. It became a bingo hall in the 1970’s and finally closed down in the 1980’s. There are vague plans to try and restore it to its former glory but they’d need twenty million pounds to do that and it seems unlikely they’ll raise it.’ Sherlock shook his head. ‘What a shame.’

  ‘Why did Myles tell us to meet him here?’ murmured Ed apprehensively.

  ‘I presume because he wanted somewhere where we won’t be disturbed. It’s all too evident that nobody ever comes here.’

  ‘So what are we going to do when he turns up?’

  ‘We’ll find out what he knows. After that, I’m not sure. Anyway, we won’t have to wait long.’

  ‘But he said eleven o’clock.’

  ‘He did, but if he’s any good at his job, he’ll have come much earlier than that. He’ll want to stake the place out, make sure we haven’t brought anyone else with us. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that he’s already here somewhere, skulking in the shadows…’

  ‘You’re a clever chap,’ said a suave voice from somewhere in the darkness and then powerful stage lights snapped on, making them both blink. As Ed’s eyes focused, he became aware of a man strolling out onto the stage from his hiding place in the wings; a stocky fellow with neatly cut grey hair and intense blue eyes. He was wearing a suede coat with a sheepskin collar and Ed noticed that his rather fancy shoes had been polished until they shone like black mirrors. Just behind him trailed another man, tall and skinny, wearing a greasy-looking black leather jacket. He had long, scruffy hair that seemed somehow too big for his head and his oddly bulging eyes looked all the stranger because there were no eyebrows above them.

  ‘You!’ hissed Ed and in that instant it all came flooding back to him in a rush of sight and sound.

  For a moment he was back, walking nervously along a Manchester street with the skinny, goggle-eyed man, the two of them turning left and right along a maze of back streets until they found themselves standing outside the Peveril of the Peak. ‘Wait ‘ere a minute,’ Skinny, had said, speaking with a local accent. ‘The guy who has your dog is inside. I’ll bring him out here to have a quick talk with you.’

  And he had stepped through the door of the pub, which swung shut behind him. Ed stood there, waiting impatiently to hear about Lucky. It had been almost a week now and the boy was frantic for news of his much-loved pet. He had nearly given up hope when he’d received the phone call yesterday afternoon, a Friday, a man’s voice he didn’t recognise telling him that Lucky had been found. There was no mistake, the man said, because the dog’s name was engraved on a little metal tag on his collar. The man on the phone had a local accent and he told the boy to meet him outside Piccadilly Station the following day, Saturday. The boy said that he would need to check with his dad when he got back from work, but the man said, ‘No, why bother him? I’m sure he’s busy enough,’ and the boy had to admit that yes, Dad was busy, he always worked Saturdays and made no exceptions, so he wouldn’t be able to accompany Ed into Manchester.

  After a bit of frantic thinking, he decided to ask a friend to go with him instead, a boy called Luke and that was all set up until Luke phoned half an hour before the two of them were due to set off, saying he’d come down with a stinking cold and couldn’t

  go with him.

  He knew it was wrong, but Dad had already left for work and Ed was desperate to get Lucky back, so against all his better judgement he went by himself to Piccadilly Station and now here he was, standing outside the pub, waiting for Skinny to return…

  And finally, finally, the door opened again and Skinny emerged with another man, the one who called himself Myles and Ed felt a rush of excitement, because Myles had Lucky with him. He was walking him on a lead and the man was smiling at him. But the boy noticed that the smile did not extend to his eyes and he began to feel afraid because there was something about Myles, something dangerous in the steely glint of those blue eyes and the mocking twist of his smile. The boy stepped impulsively forward to claim Lucky but Myles lifted a hand to stop him in his tracks. And then he explained the situation calmly and quietly, glancing from side to side every so often to ensure that he wasn’t being overheard by anyone passing by.

  ‘Listen carefully to me, boy. We have your father. Do you understand? We took him on his way to work this morning and if you want him back alive, you are going to have to do a little favour for me.’ The man reached into the pocket of his suede coat and withdrew a slip of paper which he pressed into the boy’s hand. Ed looked at it in bewilderment. He noted that there was a code written on it. He recognised his father’s distinctive writing and also his own date of birth.

  1-6-0-7-0-2.

  ‘That is the combination of the safe in your father’s study,’ explained Myles. ‘You are to go straight home, open the safe and take out the small packet of pink diamonds stored on the bottom shelf. Then you will bring them to me.’ He leaned closer and Ed co
uld smell the sour, garlicky stink of his breath. ‘Don’t even think about going to the police or to a friend or relative. You will tell nobody about this. And I do mean nobody. You will come to Piccadilly Station – the same place you met my friend here earlier. You will waste no time over this, do you understand? As soon as you have the diamonds, you will bring them to the station.’

  The boy nodded, dumbly, too shocked to speak.

  ‘Good. I want you to remember that my friend here will be watching you every step of the way. If he sees anything wrong, any other person with you or following you, he will tell me, and you will never see your father again. Do you believe me?’

  Ed nodded a second time. He was afraid of Myles because he could somehow tell that the man had done terrible things; that he was capable of just about anything. But now Myles did something unexpected. He pressed the dog lead into the boy’s hand.

  ‘Here’s your dog,’ he said. ‘I’m giving him to you as a gesture of good faith. But it means that you owe me. So do not delay. Go home, get the diamonds, bring them to the station. When I have them, you will wait twenty-four hours and you will tell nobody what has happened. Then I will contact you and tell you where your father is being held. You’ll be able to go and get him. Do you understand what you have to do?’

  Ed nodded. He was afraid to even look the man in the eyes.

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Off you go then. And don’t waste any time. Remember, we will be watching you.’

  The boy turned and walked away, taking Lucky with him…

  And suddenly, everything receded and he was back, back in the deserted theatre, the lights on the stage blazing into his eyes and he gave a gasp and almost fell. Sherlock put out a gloved hand to steady him. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Ed nodded. ‘I remember,’ he gasped. He pointed to the stage. ‘That man made me get the diamonds. He has my father. You were right about the combination. It was for the safe at home.’

  Sherlock shook his head in evident disgust and looked up at Myles. ‘You, sir, are a contemptible coward,’ he said. ‘Using a young boy in such a craven fashion. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  Myles laughed at this but even so, he seemed puzzled. ‘And who are you exactly?’ he hissed. ‘More to the point, what are you? You look like a freak. You don’t even look human.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Sherlock assured him. ‘And when I see some examples of that race, I’m very glad to be different.’

  The two men on the stage exchanged baffled looks. Then Myles turned back to look at Sherlock. ‘Well, whatever you are, I didn’t come here to talk,’ he said. ‘Do you have the diamonds?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Sherlock. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Myles’ eyes narrowed. ‘So… hadn’t you better hand them over?’

  ‘If I do that,’ murmured Sherlock, ‘how do I know you’ll honour your part of the agreement and let the boy’s father go free?’

  ‘You don’t know that. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to trust me.’

  Sherlock laughed softly. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But nothing you’ve done so far inspires my trust.’ He paused for a moment and then smiled. ‘So, you’re from London – that great cesspool into which all loungers and idlers are irresistibly drained. You’re from Knightsbridge, judging by your accent. You’re clearly knowledgeable about diamonds, so I’d say you’re in the trade. I wouldn’t be totally surprised if you’re an associate of the boy’s father. Perhaps you even work alongside him. At any rate, you found out that he had a consignment of pale pink fancies in his home and you realised the value of them. You saw an opportunity to be rich. So you devised a plan to kidnap the boy’s dog.’ He paused. ‘Am I warm?’ he asked.

  Myles’ jaw dropped open in amazement. ‘You may be a nine foot tall freak but you’re surprisingly smart,’ he observed. ‘Too smart for your own good, I would say. Are you police?’

  ‘No, I’m a detective.’

  Myles gestured to Skinny, who reached into his jacket and pulled out a big, automatic pistol, which he pointed at Sherlock’s chest.

  ‘You’re gonna be a dead detective if you don’t hand over those diamonds sharpish,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going to count to three…’

  ‘Oh, save yourself the trouble,’ said Sherlock. ‘For one thing it’s needlessly melodramatic and for another, I seriously doubt that a man of your breeding could count that high without using his fingers.’ He began to walk towards the stage, pulling Ed in behind him as he did so, offering him cover from any gunfire.

  Skinny’s face registered irritation but Myles lifted a hand. ‘He’s just trying to make you angry,’ he said. ‘Ignore the taunts.’ He pointed at Sherlock. ‘That’s close enough, freak.’

  But Sherlock kept walking. ‘I’m going to reach into my pocket now,’ he said. ‘I assure you, I do not have a weapon, I’m just getting the diamonds. Don’t do anything foolish.’ He reached a hand slowly into his waistcoat and pulled it out again, lifting the whistle by its cord so that it flashed enticingly in the stage lights.

  ‘What’s that supposed to be?’ sneered Myles.

  ‘I should have thought it was quite obvious that it’s a whistle,’ said Sherlock. ‘The diamonds are hidden inside it. Actually, I wanted to have a word with you about them,’ he added, moving closer still, until he was standing right at the edge of the stage.

  ‘What about them?’ snapped Myles, sounding suspicious.

  ‘I don’t quite know how to break this to you. You see, I had the opportunity to examine them in some detail, before we set off. Now, you can’t blame the boy for this, he only did what you told him to do, he obeyed your commands to the letter…’

  ‘What are you blathering about?’ bellowed Myles.

  ‘I’m afraid these diamonds are fakes. Oh, very good ones, they’d fool anyone who wasn’t an expert, but they didn’t fool me for an instant.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ said Skinny.

  ‘Of course he is,’ agreed Myles.

  ‘I assure you I’m not. You see, the best way to tell is to hold them up to the light…’ Sherlock set the whistle down on the edge of the stage. ‘If you’ll

  allow me,’ he said. He brought his clenched fist down onto the whistle, popping it open. Then he picked up the tiny plastic package between a massive thumb and forefinger and raised his arm. The eyes of the two men on the stage followed the packet. ‘If you look carefully, you’ll see that these gems are just a little too clear to be genuine pink fancies. A true fancy has a dull, almost opaque quality…’

  The two men moved warily closer, Skinny keeping the gun trained on Sherlock’s chest. Ed cowered behind the detective, all too aware that this could go horribly wrong.

  ‘Just hand them over,’ insisted Myles.

  ‘Gladly. A man of your evident experience will be able to see at a glance that they’re not the real thing.’ Sherlock lowered his arm somewhat and held the package tantalisingly out towards Skinny, who took the last few steps to the edge of the stage. ‘Now, as I said, you mustn’t blame the boy and you know what? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if his father didn’t know about it either. As I said, these are exceptionally good fakes…’

  ‘Stop talking!’ Skinny warned him, but Sherlock kept right on.

  ‘You see, I’ve been thinking about this. How would you even know what the boy’s father did for a living unless you were an inside man at the company he works for? Somebody who knew he’d been given the diamonds for safe keeping. But think about this. What if others at the company suspected that there was a mole working there? What if they gave the boy’s father some fakes and told him they were genuine? Just to try and draw you out? I mean, he’s not going to check too carefully, is he? He’d have taken their word for it. Not a very nice thing to do, I’ll grant you,

  but… not outside the
realms of possibility.’

  ‘For the last time,’ snapped Myles. ‘Hand over the diamonds or I’ll tell my man to shoot you where you stand.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for such unpleasantness. Here, please, check them for yourself.’ Sherlock went to hand the packet over to Skinny and then said, ‘Oops!’ and let it drop. Skinny just couldn’t help himself. He made an instinctive grab for the falling gems and in that same instant, Sherlock reached up, took hold of his gun hand and gave a sharp tug. ‘Watch out, Ed!’ he yelled.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Skinny lurched forward as though he’d been yanked by a carthorse. His wig slipped down over his eyes and he sailed into the air as Sherlock ducked under him. The gun went off and a bullet thudded into a velvet seat a few rows back. Ed was aware of the man somersaulting over him and then hurtling down onto the hard floor with a loud thud. The gun slipped from his grasp and went skittering away across the floor. Ed ran for it, snatched it up and turned back to point it at Skinny but the man lay unmoving on the wooden floor, seemingly out cold.

  Now Sherlock was vaulting up over the edge of the stage and Myles was backing away, shaking his head from side to side. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol of his own. ‘Stay back!’ he roared. ‘I’m warning you.’

  ‘You’re warning me what?’ asked Sherlock. ‘That you’ll shoot me if I come any closer? I say, do your worst, you ruffian!’

  Sherlock kept walking towards him. At the last moment there was the shocking sound of gunfire and Ed saw a flash of flame light up Sherlock’s face,

  which twisted into an expression of pain. He hesitated for a moment, while Myles stood there staring up at him in disbelief.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Sherlock. ‘That really hurt.’ Then he lifted a hand and bought his clenched fist down hard on the top of Myles’ head, knocking him flat.

 

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