No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (epub)

  “Why don’t you answer it?” she said.

  “You think I should?”

  “Jesus, it’s not going to bite.”

  Finch unhooked the receiver and put it to his ear.

  “Captain Finch?” came the tinny female voice.

  “Daisy?”

  “No, sir … this is the Cape Town exchange.”

  His blood ran suddenly cold. How could they know?

  “Connecting you now, sir …”

  There was a man on the line.

  “Captain Finch?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Shawcroft.”

  “Shawcroft?”

  “I’m watching you from the building across the way. You have about 30 seconds before the MFPs bust in. Get out!”

  Finch could feel the hum from the elevator shaft. The lift was rising.

  “The fire escape,” the man urged.

  Even though the main door was closed, they could hear the clang of the elevator gate. It was followed by a tattoo of hobnails on the corridor’s shiny linoleum.

  “Nurse Jones, the window,” Finch motioned.

  There was a rattling of the doorknob, followed by loud banging.

  “We know you’re in there!” boomed a voice.

  There was a crunch as someone rammed a shoulder into the door.

  “Cape Town Races. Noon.”

  The man hung up.

  Annie swung open the casement window. Finch ushered her onto the metal fire escape.

  “Who was that?”

  “I’ll explain.”

  They clambered down the eight floors into another alleyway.

  As they reached the bottom, a head poked out from Cox’s office, an MFP.

  “Oi you! Stop!”

  Finch was scuttling away as fast he could.

  “Wait,” said Annie.

  Two MFPs were now out of the window and thundering down.

  “Here …”

  She was lifting up the bottom section of ladder, a drop-down segment, trying to unhook it.

  “I’m becoming an expert.”

  Finch saw what she was doing and helped her. Removing the section would mean a two-storey drop. The ladder clanged to the ground.

  They disappeared up the alley and merged into the burgeoning morning crowd on Bree Street. When they had cut across a succession of roads and alleyways, they wound their way through the stalls of Greenmarket Square. The stall-holders were setting up trestle tables that were flowering into colourful displays of fruit, vegetables, African tribal jewellery, cheap clothing and assorted knick-knacks.

  Satisfied that no MFPs were evident they diverted behind a garment store and skulked, once again, in an alley alongside bins, crates, boxes and pallets. There were workmen delivering racks of clothing off the back of a flatbed cart straight into the tradesmen’s entrance.

  Pausing to catch breath, Finch explained to Annie about the warning phone call.

  “Shawcroft? Where have we heard it before?” she asked.

  Finch unbuttoned his breast pocket. Of all Cox’s personal effects, the only thing he had managed to retain was the wallet. The intruder at the hotel had taken the ten shillings from within. But in the rear section, behind a silk divider, the other items remained – some 1d and 2d stamps, a receipt from a chemist’s shop and a scrap of paper. He showed it to her. It was lined and ripped from the bottom right-hand corner of a notepad. On it, written in pencil, was one word – ‘Shawcroft’.

  “Here,” said Annie and produced a large orange which she had purloined from a stall. “I don’t usually hold with such behaviour but, given the situation.”

  The fruit was huge, plump and took two hands to hold. She bit into it to break the surface, then dug her nails in to start peeling. As a coil of orange skin fell to the floor, she broke the flesh into two halves. They both gorged silently. To Finch, the tangy fruit was like a shot of pure energy.

  “Extenuating circumstances,” he said. “Though I did have some change on me.”

  “So, Cape Town Races?”

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “Over at Kenilworth.”

  “How do we know we can trust him, this Shawcroft? Just because he tipped us off about the MFPs doesn’t necessarily make him on our side.”

  “We don’t know. We’ll have to take a chance. Tread carefully. See what he wants.”

  “Did he say what he looks like?”

  “No.”

  She mused for a moment.

  “What size are you?”

  “What?”

  “Your size. Chest, collar, waist—”

  “Why?”

  “We can’t go dressed like this.”

  The delivery men had gone in, the clothes racks were temporarily unattended.

  “As you say,” she added. “Extenuating circumstances.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The thunder of hooves sent a shock through his body. Finch was suddenly minded of the Boers at the farmstead at Magersfontein. Even the smell – of turf, earth, sand and beast – was evocative.

  He thought for a moment of Swanepoel, a man ostensibly civilised but who would then have seemed to have been responsible for a monstrous act. The execution of the wounded had been pushed to the back of his mind amid all that had happened of late. But when Finch recalled it, he grew angry.

  He would not forget. And when this episode was over, he would not the let the army forget it either.

  The pack came into the home straight and a shiny, sinewy black beast – its jockey in green and gold silks – was a full length ahead, nearly two by the time it tore past the winning post, the pursuing riders smacking their crops, the wide-eyed equines snorting and frothing.

  The visceral thrill of a group of horses running flat out drew on its association with a cavalry charge, Finch supposed – or rather the romance of a cavalry charge. Not too far north from here young men on horseback, swords drawn, were being mown down casually by men with machine guns. Cavalry were a dying breed, in every sense.

  There was an added perversity for Finch. The race meeting – with its culinary fineries and champagne and high fashion – was taking place not only in the face of a war but amid it. All around the southern suburbs were army camps. They had colonised every square inch of open ground. Indeed, much of the day’s clientele was made up of officers. The remainder, it seemed, was comprised of those whom the war was treating well.

  After the first race, the band of the Scots Greys was wheeled out to march up and down before the grandstand. In its ceremonial red – where combat troops were now filth-covered men in khaki – it too peddled the legend.

  The regiment had just arrived in the Cape, the crowd was informed. It would be at the vanguard of the relief of Kimberley, an announcement that brought a rousing cheer and the waving of hats.

  In joyous celebration, the tic-tac men took to their soap-boxes and fistfuls of bills changed hands.

  While the band played on, Finch kept in the centre of the throng and fingered Brookman’s revolver in the right-hand pocket of his jacket – part of a rather tight, light brown suit, his army shirt and tie and brown boots fitting the ensemble. He could raise and fire it without removing it, he had rehearsed. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

  Finch kept moving and turning, scanning the crowd. He could not see Annie directly but knew exactly where to signal should they choose to abort their mission or, in the worst case scenario they had discussed, Finch be beyond salvation.

  The sudden whiff of perfume in the air combined with the whirling wisps of cigar smoke took him to other glimpses into high society – Ascot, Henley, punting on the Cam …

  Did you go punting on the Cam, Swanepoel?

  … promenading alongside the Albert Memorial – events he had only experienced briefly and uncomfortably.

  He conjured images of his own dear mother, since deceased, and how as a child she had attended the Great Exhibition at the huge Crystal Palace in Hyde Park. She use
d to regale his wide-eyed self with stories of the wondrous new inventions demonstrated – the camera, the telephone, even the elevator, which were now everyday reality. The pace at which technology proceeded flummoxed him. The age of sail was nearly over. The dear old horse itself, it was said, would be soon be replaced by the new automotive carriage. In this very war, army scouts were using Marconi wireless sets – communication without cables.

  A man with a megaphone gave the final run-though of the runners and riders. Despite such advancements, Finch doubted if anyone more than 3ft away could understand any of the announcement.

  He watched as the hands on the clock on the grandstand nudged round to noon. Right on time, the tape went up, the horses bolted. There was a huge roar. As the crowd surged forward, he jostled to keep himself visible to Annie.

  “Captain Finch?”

  They had run through the drill so many times that Finch’s first instinct was not to turn and face whoever it was who had come up behind him, but to grab his right earlobe, the signal that contact had been made.

  The man laid a timid hand on his elbow. He was having to shout.

  “Captain? … Captain Finch?”

  The man was of short to medium height, balding, overweight, his forehead glistening with sweat. He reminded Finch of a garden gnome, a beardless garden gnome in a grubby worsted suit.

  “Shawcroft?”

  The man nodded.

  “… Of the Evening Post.”

  There was a gasp as a horse on the far side, wobbled, then a burst of relief as the jockey steadied his mount.

  “You’re a journalist?” Finch blurted. “How did you—?”

  “No time.”

  There was an urgency about the man. His eyes were bloodshot, glassy.

  * * *

  Annie waited beneath the main grandstand. For her part, she had stolen a maroon skirt and jacket with a large crocheted beret into which he had tucked up her hair. Not that in the dark, presently, it made any difference.

  Before she and Finch had taken up their positions, they had reconnoitred the racecourse and found it to be the best place to afford both a vantage point and somewhere to remain hidden. In the wall at the back of the stand, alongside a trench that had been roped off for building work, they had found a door that led to an enclosed storage area under the angled boards of the seating.

  In the light of a solitary window she could see the rubbish that has accumulated on the dirt floor – things that had fallen through the gaps from above – coins, combs, handkerchiefs, a lady’s fan, tickets, ripped-up betting slips.

  As the horses came into the home straight, the shouts of the spectators reverberated down through the walls. When people rose as the horses came into the final furlong, there was a resounding rat-a-tat-tat as the sprung wooden seats slapped up.

  The window afforded not a view of the course but away to the side, to the paddock and winning enclosure, the place where they had agreed Finch should position himself.

  She could see him – just – deliberately and conspicuously bare-headed amid a sea of hats, looking this way and that, then gazing periodically in her direction, trusting that she would be watching out for him.

  There was an almighty explosion of applause as the winner crossed the line. They had been in place for 15 minutes now. She could just make out her fob watch and hands that showed it was almost noon. If Shawcroft was about to make himself known, it would be now.

  Despite the care they had taken, Annie was suddenly discombobulated by the fact that she was not alone. She did not see anyone but could register a presence. Whoever it was, she supposed, could sense that they’d startled her.

  A voice came eventually.

  “Good day.”

  It was English, flat, unemotional. The noise outside and above could well have masked the sound of the man’s entry, but the door, when she had opened it, had cast a pool of midday sunlight. Whoever it was must have entered ahead of her. He had been waiting.

  “Good day,” she replied, affecting to portray no fear.

  She looked out at Finch. He was oblivious.

  The man came closer. In a sudden lull, she could hear his shoes crunch. He remained several feet away but was now positioned behind Annie, between her and the door. She could see his shape, sense his being.

  He said nothing more. The silence lingered.

  “Shawcroft?” asked Annie. “Are you Shawcroft?”

  With her eyes re-adjusting to the gloom after looking out of the window, he pulled something from his pocket. A kerchief? No, gloves. Leather ones. He began easing them on. He took his time.

  “What do you know of Shawcroft?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  The crowd was becoming active outside the window. The winning horse was being led into the enclosure. They were on their feet. The seats above repeated their rat-a-tat-tat volley. The man could do with her as he willed. No one would know.

  There was an icy calm to him.

  “Is Shawcroft meeting you here?”

  She said nothing. He repeated the question, the tone more incisive.

  “No … I …”

  “No need to be alarmed, Nurse Jones.”

  He knew her?

  He stepped closer still.

  The sash window. It didn’t appear locked. She would have to slide the bottom half up … if it didn’t jam, they usually did. The dust suggested the frame was not well maintained. Even in her long skirt she was adept enough to hoist herself over the sill, but she could not outmuscle this man.

  “Who is Moriarty?” he asked.

  “What? … I don’t know.”

  Then, from the corner of her eye she saw Finch, amid the throng, as people jostled to congratulate the rider or pat the horse. He was raising his right hand to touch his ear. In which case who was …?

  The man with Annie watched her turn and followed her line of vision. The space was suddenly filled with light, momentarily blinding her, as the door swung open.

  * * *

  “Here …”

  Shawcroft pressed a rustling bundle into Finch’s hands. It was soft, wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string.

  Around them the crowd swirled. Patrons were shouting the name of the winning jockey, offering up hands to shake his as the horse was led right through, parting the crowd.

  Shawcroft’s voice quavered. Sweat beaded on his brow.

  “It was found in the Somerset Road Cemetery.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He looked back and forth, then hissed it out, as if the words themselves were poison.

  “Moriarty. Have you found Moriarty?”

  “Who is Moriarty?”

  He lowered his voice and spoke rapidly.

  “Moriarty holds material, information of great worth, Captain Finch. You must know that. Your man … a big price.”

  They were being jostled. The man clung to Finch now, grabbing his lapels, almost begging. His breath was stale, dehydrated.

  “Seeking Moriarty puts you in great danger,” Shawcroft urged. “Mere knowledge of Moriarty can—”

  People were looking at them, pretending not to when Finch returned their gaze. He wedged the parcel under his arm and prised the man’s fingers from his jacket.

  “You’re making a spectacle of yourself, Shawcroft … Believe me, I’m as desperate as you to find out what’s going on here.”

  This time it was Finch who did the lapel-grabbing.

  “So, answer me … Who the hell is this Moriarty and just what has he got?”

  He shook Shawcroft hard. The man gave a shriek, a pathetic one, like a child. Heads turned again.

  Finch suddenly felt the weight of Shawcroft as he collapsed into his arms and softly toppled forward. There were gasps. A woman screamed. He had space around him, people were pulling back.

  The band struck up again: The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond.

  Finch eased Shawcroft to the ground. In the middle of his back, between the shoulder blades, was a
single blood red blot soaking outward. Whatever implement had been used, it had been sharp, thin and long.

  Finch rolled Shawcroft over. The eyes were open. He felt for a pulse in his neck. There was none.

  “HIM! It was HIM!”

  A woman in a white gown with an elegantly feathered hat was pointing right at Finch.

  “Someone!” she continued. “Someone!”

  Others joined in.

  “I say, you!” growled an elderly gentleman with a monocle.

  “Stop him! Stop that man!” yelled another.

  Not far away Finch heard a police whistle. He picked up the bundle and barged his way out as fast as he could.

  * * *

  Annie saw Finch shoot his right arm straight up in the air, the sign to get out – and get out now. He was hurrying her way. Something had happened. Fingers were pointing.

  For a moment she saw another man turn back in her direction. Though she had not seen him fully, she knew instinctively it was the same one who had been with her not a minute before. And now, in the daylight, she saw it, the red hair. Though he couldn’t see her, he knew she could see him. He looked coldly in her direction. And then he was gone.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Finch ran towards the main gate, then threw a sharp left past a vending stall selling tea and sandwiches till he reached the back of the grandstand.

  “Through there!” Annie yelled.

  The building work – where ground had been broken to lay new foundations – continued all the way to the perimeter fence. A section of the iron railings had been removed, to be replaced with a makeshift screen of rough wooden slats held together with wire.

  They crossed a duckboard over a trench and parted a section of it, climbing through into the trees that lined that area of the course.

  They could hear the whistles and shouts but kept their nerve to weave through into what seemed the boundary of a public park, where mothers and nannies wheeled perambulators and young children of the well-to-do chased each other round and round. Inevitably, there was an encroachment upon it by army tents.

  Finch and Annie determined to head in what they believed to be the least obvious direction, not a route out of Kenilworth but back into it, around the side of the racecourse.