by Danny Weston
‘All right,’ growled the businessman. ‘You’ve made your point.’ He scowled at Owen and then reached grudgingly into his pocket and pulled out a shilling. ‘There,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Just to show there’s no hard feelings.’
Owen looked at the coin in his hand, unable to say anything because his mouth was still crammed full of sticky sweets. Mr Sparks spoke for him. ‘Very decent of you, sir. Thanks for being such a good sport.’ He looked up at Owen and fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Remember that shilling, Owie,’ he said. ‘That’s just the first of many coins we’ll earn together.’
Owen sat there in uncomfortable silence as the train rocked and clattered along the metal rails.
Wilkins pressed the horn once again but the Daimler was still surrounded by a seemingly endless flock of sheep, which had spilled through an open gateway onto the road. There was no sign of a shepherd in attendance and even when he tried edging the car forward, the stupid creatures just stood their ground, baaing like idiots. He wound down the window and bellowed at them. ‘Get out of it!’ he roared. ‘Go on, shift yer carcasses!’ His shouts had no effect whatsoever.
Quinn sighed. ‘There’s no point in getting excited,’ he said. ‘It will take as long as it takes.’
Wilkins looked at Quinn incredulously. He’d worked for him for more than two years now and never ceased to be amazed by how relaxed the thin man could be, even under times of great duress.
‘But we’re so close,’ snarled Wilkins. ‘Closer than we’ve ever been. Don’t that bother you?’
Quinn shrugged. ‘I believe in fate,’ he said. ‘I believe that I’m destined to capture that abomination eventually and whether it takes me a day, a month or a year is of no consequence. I shall capture him, of that I have no doubt. This …’ He waved a gloved hand towards the windscreen. ‘This is just a minor distraction.’
Wilkins sighed and turned his attention to what he could see through the windscreen – namely a sea of woolly white rumps, clogging up the road ahead of him. It occurred him, not for the first time, that working for Quinn had to be the strangest job he’d ever had. After all this time, he felt that he still knew very little about the man. Oh, he knew he was fabulously rich, he’d seen the palatial mansion in Buckinghamshire where he lived, but he didn’t know how Quinn had come by his wealth or even what drew him to spend his life chasing after oddities like Mr Sparks.
‘You realise,’ murmured Wilkins, ‘that he’ll probably be looking for a new identity now? It’s what he’s always done.’
Quinn nodded, but said nothing.
‘Bit of a turn up for the books, though,’ continued Wilkins. ‘A twelve-year-old kid! I mean, young and impressionable is one thing, but that’s ridiculous.’
‘Perhaps he saw something in the boy,’ said Quinn. ‘Something he thought he could work with.’
Wilkins frowned. He was aware how foolish it sounded. They were, after all, discussing a wooden puppet. For a long time, Wilkins hadn’t believed any of it was possible, but over the past year, as the search continued, he’d gradually come around to changing his point of view. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He carefully unfolded it, until he had it open on his lap. It was an ancient theatrical poster, its edges frayed and yellow.
‘Why are you always looking at that?’ muttered Quinn.
‘Just reminding myself,’ said Wilkins. ‘Sometimes, it’s ’ard to believe.’
‘Believe it,’ said Quinn.
It was a black-and-white poster for the Variété Théâtre, Paris dated 1782, an act which featured a magician called Lucien Lacombe and his hilarious assistant, ‘Charles’. In the picture, Lucien was depicted sitting on an ornate throne. He was a slim man with an immaculately trimmed beard. He wore a richly embroidered robe and a turban. On his lap sat what was clearly a ventriloquist’s dummy. The dummy’s clothes were different from the ones that he wore now. In the eighteenth century he’d sported a jester’s outfit complete with a three-pronged hat. But the face was exactly the same. The huge eyes seemed to stare knowingly at Wilkins across an interval of more than two hundred years.
‘Do you think the boy has any idea?’ murmured Wilkins. ‘Of the danger he’s in?’
Quinn shrugged. His face showed not a shred of sympathy. ‘People should be more careful about the company they keep,’ he said.
A loud shout made them look up. A burly Welsh shepherd in a crumpled hat had just emerged from the field. He was waving a stick and cursing the stupidity of his flock. A couple of border collies raced through its midst and started to harry the sheep back towards the field. The farmer gave the occupants of the car an apologetic wave.
Wilkins folded the poster and placed it carefully back in his pocket.
‘How far now?’ asked Quinn.
‘Just a couple of miles,’ said Wilkins.
Then, as the last of the flock trotted in through the gates, he gunned the engine and drove away.
7
Asylum
The taxi cab motored slowly in through the gates of the asylum. Owen sat in the back with the case balanced across his knees, feeling like a member of the royal family. He had never ridden in a taxi before. Aunt Gwen wouldn’t have considered paying for such a luxury, no matter how important the situation, but the single cab had been parked in front of Denbigh station when they’d emerged from the exit and, when he’d told Mr Sparks it was there, the dummy had instructed him to get into it and go straight to the asylum, never mind how much it cost. ‘We’ve got to get you to your mother,’ he’d whispered from inside the case. ‘That’s all that matters right now. A promise is a promise so we’ll spare no expense.’
The driver brought the cab to a halt and Owen climbed out. He stared down the wide straight approach of the drive at the forbidding grey building ahead of him. Rows of blank windows seemed to stare at him unwelcomingly and above him a central tower reared its square head towards the angry grey sky. It looked, Owen thought, more like a prison than anything else, which he supposed was pretty much what it was. He swallowed, then turned back to the driver’s open window. ‘Will you wait for us, please?’ he said. ‘We won’t be long.’
The driver, a portly man wearing a cloth cap, raised his eyebrows. ‘We?’ he echoed.
‘I mean, “me”,’ said Owen hastily. ‘There is only me. Obviously.’ He could feel his cheeks burning so he picked up the suitcase, turned, and began to walk slowly towards the entrance of the asylum.
‘Careful,’ hissed a voice from inside the case. ‘Or they’ll be locking you up along with your mother.’
Owen paused for a moment and spoke in a low voice. ‘Pipe down,’ he said.
‘You what?’
‘If anybody hears you, who knows what might happen? You’ll have to stay quiet.’
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.’
Mr Sparks fell uncharacteristically silent, but Owen stood where he was for a moment, wanting to be sure the dummy had really got the message. When he finally felt reassured, he went forward again and climbed the stone steps to the big front doors. He pushed them silently open and walked in to the massive reception area, a place of gleaming white tiles and polished brass rails, a million miles away from the horrible starkness of the wards and cells that Owen knew from experience lay at the heart of the building. He took a deep breath and approached the reception desk, where a white-uniformed, shrew-faced woman sat, scribbling on a sheet of paper. She didn’t seem to be aware of the new arrival, so after a few moments, Owen coughed politely and she looked up, regarding him sullenly over the top of her spectacles.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked him disapprovingly.
‘Yes, please. I’ve come to visit my ma.’
The woman scowled, as though she didn’t much like that either. ‘Name?’ she asked him.
‘Owen.’
She rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Your mother’s name?’ she said.
‘Oh … sorry. Megan. Megan Dyer.’
&nb
sp; She glanced at a book in front of her. ‘You don’t appear to have made an appointment,’ she said, as though it was the worst sin in the world.
‘Er … no. Not exactly. But … it’s always been a Sunday when I’ve visited her before. I haven’t been for quite a while.’
‘Is there somebody else with you?’ asked the woman.
Owen glanced down at the suitcase in alarm. Was it that obvious?
‘There isn’t … I mean, it’s not—’
‘An adult?’ the woman prompted him.
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Owen relaxed a little. ‘No, I … I usually come with my aunt Gwen, but she was … very busy.’ Owen tried an apologetic smile, but it had little effect. ‘I’ve come a long way,’ he added. ‘All the way from Llandudno.’
‘It’s very irregular,’ said the woman. ‘But take a seat over there and I’ll see what I can do.’ She gestured to a row of upholstered benches and he did as she’d suggested, sliding the case onto his knees as he settled himself down. He watched as she picked up a telephone and spoke into it.
‘Hatchet-faced old cow,’ muttered Mr Sparks.
‘You couldn’t even see her,’ Owen whispered back.
‘No, but I could picture her.’
‘Shhh!’ Owen glanced around, terrified of being overheard, but nobody seemed to be taking any notice of him. There were only a few people sitting in reception, the men in their Sunday suits, the women in elaborate dresses and bonnets. Everybody liked to dress smartly when they were obliged to visit this place. They all sat in silence with glum expressions, because nobody was particularly happy about being here.
‘I wish I could see out of this thing,’ complained Mr Sparks. ‘I’m going to get you to make a little hole in the leather, so I can peep out and—’
‘Quiet!’ Owen warned him. He could see that a man had just stepped out from a doorway and was coming towards him, a big, heavyset fellow wearing the white jacket of an orderly. He had curly blond hair and a ruddy face and he was smiling pleasantly. ‘You’ve come to see your mother, is that right?’
Owen nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose a brief visit will do any harm. She seems quite calm today.’ He looked thoughtfully at the case on Owen’s lap. ‘Looks like you’ve come to stay,’ he observed. ‘Is that some things you’ve brought for your mother?’
‘Er … yes … sort of.’
‘No food in there, is there? Most of our lot are on special diets. We don’t want them gorging themselves on sweets and biscuits.’
‘Oh no,’ Owen assured him. ‘No food.’
‘So what then?’
‘Just … stuff.’
The man seemed amused. ‘We have to be careful what people bring in, see? Just in case there’s anything … unsuitable. Things patients might use to … you know, harm themselves. Tell you what, why don’t you pop it open and we’ll have a quick look?’
Owen tried not to panic. ‘Oh, do I … really have to?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please,’ said the man, firmly. He was still smiling but now it looked a little forced. ‘In your own time.’
Owen swallowed hard. He unlatched the case and lifted the lid. Mr Sparks lay in his nest of clothing, gazing blankly up at the ceiling.
The man gave a grunt of what sounded like disgust. ‘What have you brought that thing for?’ he asked.
‘I thought it … might cheer Ma up,’ said Owen.
‘Cheer her up? Give her a fright, more like. I’ve never seen such an ugly specimen!’
Owen cringed, waiting for the inevitable comeback from Mr Sparks but it didn’t happen. He just lay there, stock-still, the smile plastered to his face.
‘Ma was always fond of Charlie,’ said Owen. ‘Said he was like … like one of the family.’
‘Really?’ The man poked around in the case, a doubtful expression on his face and Owen told himself he must be wondering what the rest of the family looked like. ‘Takes all kinds, I suppose,’ he muttered. He sighed. ‘Yes, all right then, I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm.’ He gestured to Owen to close up the case and as he did so, an instant before the lid closed, Mr Sparks slipped him a sly wink. Owen latched the case, grabbed the handle and followed the orderly out of the reception area.
The sleek black car raced on along the narrow road. It passed a wooden signpost that announced DENBIGH 3 MILES. Wilkins glanced at Quinn, but he was slumped in his seat, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Not for the first time, Wilkins found himself wondering how he had ever ended up working for a man like Quinn. And as he often did at such moments, he thought about the very first time he’d met him.
It was a few days after Wilkins had been thrown out of the police force. It had come at him out of the blue. Like most of his associates, Wilkins had never been slow in accepting the occasional bribe. It had always been seen as the done thing around Seven Dials, where he worked as an inspector and where he’d started as a young constable many years earlier. But a new police superintendent had come to work at the station, a zealous campaigner for truth and justice and a man with a spotless reputation. The police department at Seven Dials was known to be a hotbed of corruption and it soon became clear that an example would have to be made. Wilkins had been taking bigger bribes than his associates, so he was first in the firing line.
On the day he’d met Quinn, Wilkins had been at home with his wife, Ruby, moodily reading the newspaper, which had devoted most of its front page to the story of Wilkins’ dismissal.
‘It’s a nice likeness of you, Alfred,’ said Ruby, trying to be helpful. The two of them had been married for nearly fourteen years. Ruby was sweet and accommodating but, it had to be said, not the brightest firework in the box.
‘A nice likeness?’ cried Wilkins. ‘Oh well, at least there’s some good news in all this!’ He looked at Ruby helplessly. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked her. ‘We’re ruined.’
‘Well, surely they’ll give you your job back when all this blows over,’ said Ruby. ‘I mean, I understand that they’re a bit annoyed at you, but—’
‘They’re more than a bit annoyed!’ snapped Wilkins. ‘You don’t seem to understand. I’ve been sacked! That means no wages, no pension … nobody’s going to give me a job after this little lot!’ He slapped the newspaper with the flat of one hand. ‘They’ve painted me as an absolute villain. They ’aven’t even got their facts straight.’ He neglected to tell Ruby the main thing they’d got wrong was the size of the bribes he’d accepted, which were actually much bigger than was stated in the newspaper.
‘You’ll just have to retrain for something else,’ she suggested.
‘But what?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve been a copper all me life, I don’t know how to do anything else.’
‘Love, there’s a War on. There’s sure to be something you can do. I’ll have a word with Bert, I’m sure he’ll find you a position.’ Bert was Ruby’s brother, a painter and decorator. He’d escaped being called up because of a minor disability.
‘I’m not painting houses!’ protested Wilkins. ‘I’m a copper. I need something that’s suited to my skills.’
Just then, the doorbell rang. Ruby looked at Wilkins questioningly. ‘Who can that be?’ she asked him.
‘How would I know? If it’s another reporter, tell them to get lost.’
‘Very well, my dear.’ Ruby went out of the room in a swish of satin skirts, leaving Wilkins to reread the newspaper’s lurid account of his exploits. He noted that apart from the size of the bribes, the rest of it was annoyingly accurate.
Just then the door swung open and Quinn strode into the room. He stood there, smiling at Wilkins in a most disagreeable manner. The former chief inspector’s gaze swept expertly over the newcomer, noting the man’s intense dark eyes, his unusually long hair and one puzzling detail: a tiny silver badge attached to the lapel of his coat, which featured what looked like two armoured soldiers mounted on just one horse. What was that supposed to signify? Ruby appeared in the doorway
behind the newcomer, looking apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘He was most insistent.’
‘Was he?’ Wilkins glared challengingly at Quinn. ‘Whatever paper it is you write for, I’m not interested,’ he said.
‘I can assure you, I’m not from a newspaper,’ said Quinn. He looked pointedly at Ruby, until she took the hint and went out, closing the door behind her. ‘But on the other hand, I do read them. And I’ve been reading all about your exploits, Mr Wilkins. Very entertaining reading it makes, if I may say so. Which is why I’m here to offer you a job.’
‘A … job?’ Wilkins stared at him. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’
‘Not at all.’ Quinn moved closer and indicated the newspaper. ‘Quite a piece they’ve done on you,’ he observed. ‘They’ve painted you as a ruthless, conniving cheat who wouldn’t think twice about selling his own grandmother, if he thought he could make a few bob out of it.’ He paused and studied Wilkins for a moment. ‘Of course, villains are everywhere. But you’re a special kind of villain, aren’t you? One with all the contacts and experience of a veteran police officer. That’s a rare combination of talents.’
‘You … you shouldn’t believe everything they print in this rag,’ protested Wilkins, shaking the newspaper.
‘Oh, I agree. That’s why I read three other papers, before I made up my mind about you. I’m glad to report that they all speak with one accord. Chief Inspector Alfred Wilkins, they announce, is a low-down, two-faced crook of the lowest order. And luckily for you, I can use a man like that.’
Wilkins felt his face growing hot. ‘How … how dare you!’ he snarled.
Quinn ignored him. ‘Spare me the indignation,’ he said. ‘Let’s put it simply. You’re out of a job. And I’m prepared to pay you twice the wages you received as a police officer.’
Wilkins gulped. ‘You … you what?’ he cried.
‘Don’t decide yet,’ Quinn told him. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a card, which he pressed into Wilkins’ hand. ‘Come and see me when you’re ready,’ he suggested. ‘And I’ll tell you what I have in mind.’