The Wolves of London

by Mark Morris

  The house was light and spacious, the cream walls and carpet contrasting with the dark wood of a Victorian grandfather clock ticking sonorously to our left and an antique writing desk which faced it across the hallway. The paintings on the walls were bold, hot slashes of autumnal colour – reds and oranges, yellows and browns – and there was a piece of modern sculpture on a plinth by the stairs that looked both shell-like and vaguely sexual, its sensuous curves and crevices like an invitation to probe and caress.

  Moving nimbly for a man of his age, Benny led us upstairs to a landing from which the corridor branched right and left. The right-hand corridor was slightly elevated, accessed via a trio of steps set at right angles to the main staircase. Benny skipped up the steps and strode along the corridor, jabbing a finger at the first door on the left. ‘Alex, you’re in here. Monroe, yours is the fourth door on the right, next to the bathroom.’

  He waved away our thanks and told us that Lesley had been down to ‘the village’ to buy us what we needed, all of which we would find in our rooms. Then he said he would stick some coffee on and see us downstairs in fifteen minutes. His words brooked no argument – not that I was tempted to offer one. Wary as I was of his motives, my over-riding emotion was gratitude that he was willing to help us. It’s possible that, left to our own devices, Clover and I might eventually have rallied and formulated a plan, but without Benny’s intervention we would, for a time, have been like boxers on the ropes, reeling from a barrage of blows and able to do little more than react to what was being thrown at us.

  The room he had pointed out to me had an oatmeal-coloured carpet and a double bed with a blue and orange duvet. In place of the right-hand wall was a long fitted wardrobe unit with mirrored doors, whereas the upper two-thirds of the wall opposite the foot of the bed was an expanse of leaded windows overlooking the back garden and the fields beyond. On the bed, still in their bags and with the labels attached, were two pairs of jeans – one blue, one black – a couple of long-sleeved tops, a grey, zip-up hoodie, a three-pack of boxer shorts and a six-pack of new socks. It was nothing fancy, but it was decent, practical gear with no designer logos or flashes of colour to distinguish it. Making a mental note to find out how much Lesley had spent and pay either her or Benny back later, I changed out of my smelly clothes into a light grey top, the blue jeans and the hoodie.

  After transferring the heart from my black jacket into the hoodie’s side pocket, and setting my phone to charge using the new charger, I picked up a small plastic bag of toiletries bearing a Boots logo, which had been sitting next to the clothes, and wandered up the landing until I found a bathroom. I ripped my new toothbrush out of its wrapper and cleaned my teeth, and then squirted some body spray under my armpits. Feeling not exactly refreshed, but at least less like a refugee, I went downstairs.

  Ten minutes later, at Benny’s request, Clover – who had changed into a black sweatshirt and jeans – and I were recounting our experiences. I started by describing how, the previous morning, I had gradually come to realise that my daughter had been abducted, and then Clover took over, telling Benny about the anonymous email she had received. Still half-suspecting that Benny had either sent the email himself or was otherwise involved in Kate’s disappearance, I studied him closely as Clover handed over her phone so that he could read the message. However, if Benny was involved, the expression on his face gave nothing away. He handed the phone back, then listened to the rest of our story silently, his mouth set in a grim line, his pale eyes fixed unblinkingly on whichever of us was talking.

  It was when I came to the part about how McCallum had died that things became a little awkward. As I described how the black figure had come screeching at me from across the room, Clover butted in, flashing me a look which I interpreted immediately. Benny was a tough, straightforward man, with a set view of the world and it wasn’t, therefore, difficult to picture him not only dismissing our wild tales, but accusing us of wasting his time and taking advantage of his hospitality. We had enough enemies as it was, and if Benny wasn’t one already, then he wouldn’t be a good name to add to the list. For that reason, when Clover said, ‘Alex didn’t mean to hit the old man as hard as he did – did you, Alex?’ I shook my head, trying to look ashamed.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I swear, Benny, I only tapped him, but he went down like a ton of bricks.’

  Benny nodded gravely. ‘He was old. His skull must have been as thin as an egg shell. Don’t blame yourself.’

  We glossed over the attack on the Incognito, told Benny we’d heard screams and crashes and had guessed that the place was under attack and that the attackers had come for the heart. We said that when we had peeked round the door we’d seen people lying dead and a man standing on the stage with some kind of weapon in his hand.

  ‘We felt bad, but there was nothing we could do,’ Clover said. ‘So we shut and locked the door, then got out of there as fast as we could.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Benny assured her. ‘Playing the hero’s all very noble, but at the end of the day you wouldn’t have been any less dead.’

  Apart from my dream about Lyn, which I didn’t mention, the rest of the story was straightforward enough. When I had finished telling it, Clover asked, ‘So who are they, Benny, these Wolves of London?’

  Benny sighed and took a sip of coffee, his eyes swivelling to regard his wife playing happily with the dog outside. I was on tenterhooks as I watched him. I could have murdered a cig, but I had had neither the time nor the opportunity to light up since my disastrous encounter with McCallum.

  At last Benny said, ‘They’re a superstition, an underworld rumour, a story told by villains. They’re supposed to be… how shall I put this? A dark force. Unstoppable. Something to strike fear into the hearts of fearless men.’

  I exchanged a look with Clover. ‘A dark force? You mean they’re… supernatural? Is that what you’re telling us?’

  Benny gave a soft snort of laughter. ‘What I’m telling you is that they’re a story. I’m not for one minute suggesting the story is true.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in them?’ I said.

  ‘I believe that whoever is invoking their name means serious business.’

  ‘But where do these stories come from?’ Clover asked. ‘They must have some basis in fact.’

  Benny shrugged. ‘Maybe. But what you’ve got to worry about is that a lot of bad deeds have been committed in their name.’

  ‘Bad deeds?’ I said.

  ‘More than bad.’ Benny’s voice was quiet, lacking in drama. ‘Unspeakable. Deeds that can turn the stomachs of even the hardest men.’

  Clover’s lips had tightened. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Things it’s probably best not to hear about.’

  Clover abruptly slapped the arm of her chair. ‘Come on, Benny. You can’t not tell us. If these Wolves of London – or whoever is using the name – are after us, we need to know what they’re capable of.’

  A leaf the colour of fire swirled from a nearby tree and bumped against the window. More leaves were already darkening the conservatory roof, pressing against the glass like tiny yellow and brown hands.

  Benny sighed. ‘Murders,’ he said. ‘But not just murders. Torture. Mutilation. Things you wouldn’t believe. Things which no one was ever arrested for. Which the suspects all had cast-iron alibis for.’

  ‘So these Wolves are what?’ I asked. ‘A vigilante force? Mercenaries?’

  Benny shrugged. ‘Maybe. But the things they do…’

  ‘Go on,’ I muttered.

  Once again he glanced out of the window at his wife, and for the first time, as the sun caught his face and shone in his pale eyes, I got the sense – whether real or imagined – that whatever terrible things he had done in the past, it was now all over, that he had lost the taste for it. He might still be head of the pride, but I suspected (or perhaps simply hoped) that the loyalty and respect he commanded these days was based on former glories, not present deeds.

  �
�There was one bloke I knew,’ he said quietly. ‘Back in the late eighties, early nineties. He had a couple of kids, a boy and a girl. The boy was six or seven, the girl a couple of years younger. One night, while they were asleep, someone came in through their bedroom window, anaesthetised them and cut out their eyes. From what I heard it was a neat job, like a surgical operation. Whoever did it even cauterised the wounds so they wouldn’t bleed to death.’

  His voice betrayed no emotion, but I felt a chill of dread and revulsion run through me. Clover was gaping at Benny in shock.

  ‘Is that true?’

  He nodded. ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘But why would someone do something like that? It’s… horrible!’

  ‘It was a warning,’ Benny said, ‘or maybe a punishment for something the father had done. Lots of people got hurt because of it. But the bloke never did find out who it was.’

  ‘So how do you know it was to do with the Wolves of London?’ I asked.

  ‘That was the rumour. That the Wolves of London had done it. That was what everyone said.’

  ‘So is it just the case that they get blamed for every unsolved underworld crime? Villain against villain? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Benny frowned. His voice was clipped. ‘No. Because it isn’t as simple as that. It’s the type of crime. What’s done and where it’s done. Some of the things the Wolves have done, or are supposed to have done, are… how shall I put this? Hard to believe. Impossible even.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Clover.

  Benny looked thoughtful, perhaps sifting through which stories to relate, or even deciding how much he should reveal of the world in which he operated. Finally he said, ‘There was this one bloke, Ray or Roy something. He wasn’t much – a drug dealer, driver, odd-job man, fence, small time stuff, you know? Anyway, he cut in on someone’s business, and the next thing anyone knew, he’d disappeared. He was found three days later in a field in Kent.’

  Benny paused, his cold gaze sweeping across us. Then he went on, his voice quieter, heavier.

  ‘His body was smashed to pieces. Literally. Scattered across the ground. The story was that he looked as if he’d been dropped from a plane.’

  ‘Maybe he had,’ I said.

  ‘The police investigation could find no evidence that a plane had flown over that area. That doesn’t mean that there hadn’t been one, just that they could find no evidence of it. But a contact of mine on the force told me the body had weird marks all over it.’

  ‘What kind of marks?’ asked Clover.

  ‘He said they were like claw-marks. Like some big fucking bird had flown away with him, and then dropped him.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ I asked carefully.

  A ghost of a smile crossed Benny’s face. ‘I haven’t a clue. But there are other stories too, of people being torn to pieces in their homes. Not chopped up, but literally torn to pieces.’

  My guts turned over. I hadn’t given Benny the details of what I had found in the hotel bathroom, had said only that the men had been dead and that they hadn’t died easily. I glanced at Clover, wondering whether I should tell Benny the full story, but she gave the tiniest shake of her head.

  If Benny noticed he didn’t let on. He drained the last of his coffee. ‘Look, I don’t want to scare you half to death with horror stories. The chances are, whoever wants that heart of yours is just trying to put the shits up you.’

  At the mention of the heart, my hand crept to the lump in my hoodie pocket. When Candice was little she had had a pet rat called George, which used to fall asleep on her belly while she was reading or watching TV. As I touched the heart I was reminded of George. I even kidded myself that the stone felt warm beneath my palm.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything, Benny?’ Clover asked. ‘Why people are after the heart, I mean?’

  Benny shook his head. ‘Not a thing. But I’ll put a few feelers out, make some discreet enquiries.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Clover said. ‘It would be good to know exactly what we’re up against.’

  Benny gave a curt nod and turned his attention to me. ‘Mind if I have a look?’

  As ever, his scrutiny made me feel as though he’d caught me out in some way. ‘What?’

  ‘At the heart. I’d like to see what all the fuss is about.’

  He held out his hand, like a school bully demanding money. Oddly reluctant to comply with his request, I licked my lips. I glanced at Clover, and she raised her eyebrows, as if to say, What are you waiting for? So I forced a smile and handed it over.

  Benny examined the heart closely, turning it in his hand, feeling its weight, his surprisingly slim and dextrous fingers probing at it. I felt like the curator of a museum nervously watching a visitor handling a precious artefact. Weirdly, despite what it had done to McCallum, it wasn’t Benny’s welfare I was worried about, but the heart itself. I knew how tough it was, and yet I had to fight an urge to tell him to be careful.

  ‘Nice piece of work,’ he said, but he didn’t appear overly impressed. When he offered the heart back to me I had to make a conscious effort not to snatch it out of his hand.

  Outside on the lawn, Lesley or the dog had finally grown tired of the game. Lesley turned and trooped off to our right, towards the back door that led directly into the kitchen, the dog leaping at her heels. She glanced up once, her face flushed with cold, and waved at us. I saw Benny’s icy countenance melt into a sudden and surprisingly tender smile. Opposite him, Clover drew up her legs, tucking her feet beneath her, and slumped back in her chair with a heart-felt sigh.

  ‘It’s so peaceful here,’ she said, looking out at the back garden. ‘I could just curl up and go to sleep.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you?’ Benny said.

  ‘Because we need to be… doing something. Looking for Alex’s daughter.’

  Benny leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘Oh yeah, and how would you go about that then? Where would you go?’

  Clover hesitated. ‘Well… I don’t know. We’ll think of something.’

  ‘Is that right?’ His voice was quiet and without inflection, and yet it was pitched in such a way that it exposed the flimsiness of our situation, the sheer folly of our intentions.

  ‘What would you suggest, Benny?’ I asked.

  He gave a brief upward flick of the eyebrows, as if the answer was so obvious I hardly need to have asked. ‘You’ll stay here till this thing’s sorted out.’

  ‘We can’t,’ said Clover.

  ‘You can and you will.’

  ‘What if the Wolves of London come looking for us?’ I said. ‘We don’t want to put you and Lesley in danger.’

  Benny looked not at me, but at Clover. ‘I promised your dad I’d look after you,’ he said, ‘and I never break my promises.’

  I looked across at Clover too, realising there was still so much I didn’t know about her. We’d barely had a chance to get to know each other in the normal way. ‘Your dad?’ I enquired.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Long story.’ And then she changed the subject quickly enough to make me determined to return to the topic at a more opportune time. ‘Benny’s right, Alex. Our best bet is to lie low here for now. There’s nothing the two of us can do on our own. At least Benny can use his contacts to try to find out what’s going on.’

  The idea of sitting around while Kate was out there somewhere was excruciating, but I knew Clover was right. Reluctantly I said, ‘Okay. But if you can find out anything that might lead us to Kate, Benny…’

  Benny was already rising to his feet. ‘I’ll make some calls right now. Relax, Alex. Put your feet up. Make yourself at home.’

  He stalked out of the room. We heard his footsteps cross the hallway and then the creak of the stairs as he ascended them.

  Neither of us said anything until he was out of earshot and then I released a rattling sigh.

  ‘Relax, he says.’

  SEVENTEEN

  MUSTARD GAS

  Something woke me, tho
ugh I had no idea what. All I knew was that one second I was in a sleep so black and dreamless it was like death, and the next I was lying on my back with my eyes wide open and my heart pounding so hard it was throbbing in my ears.

  My limbs were tense too. No, not just tense – rigid. My fingers were claws digging into the mattress and I could feel the ache of stretched tendons in my shoulders and down the backs of my legs.

  It was dark. Quiet. Not exactly silent – a wind had got up in the night and I could hear it rushing through the trees, causing branches and dry leaves to scrape together – but hushed enough to tell me it was the dead of night, and that if a sound had penetrated my subconscious enough to stab me awake it had subsided again now.

  Perhaps I’d been woken by a sound that had already been and gone? The cry of an owl? The screech of a fox in the darkness? Maybe even the creak of a footstep on the landing from someone who’d got up to use the loo, or a door closing as they went back to bed?

  Or maybe it hadn’t been a sound at all. Maybe it had been a bad dream, instantly forgotten, or even the after-effects of a good dinner and several glasses of red wine. I couldn’t deny that my belly was uncomfortably full and my mouth tacky with dehydration. I also needed a piss, but for the time being I lay where I was and listened to the world around me, acclimatising myself.

  It had been a restless day. I had spent it feeling exactly the same as I had after Kate had disappeared – that I should be out there doing something, making things happen. But there was no denying that Clover and I were currently at a dead end. Until email man got back in touch with us, or Benny’s contacts unearthed information that might lead me to my lost daughter, there was little we could do but wait.

  To be honest, I still wasn’t sure that I could trust Benny – or even Clover for that matter. I had been watching him carefully that day, looking for indications that he knew more than he was letting on, but if he did he hid it well. At dinner I had even asked him outright whether he had been the one who had paid off Candice’s boyfriend’s debts, but he had scoffed at the idea. But if it hadn’t been Benny, then who? And more to the point, why? I didn’t know anybody who had that much disposable income – or at least nobody who would pay out that kind of money with little chance of a return.