Two of the groups stood and left the room but Mendick’s men remained seated, waiting for him. He nodded to each officer individually. He had handpicked these men and they included Sturrock and the scarred, saturnine Deuchars.
“Right boys, you heard Mr Mackay. We all know what China Jim is capable of, and we know about Beth with her knuckle dusters and her razor so be careful. Watch each other’s backs out there. Now, let’s step out together and get these monsters behind bars.”
They stood up, lifted their tall hats, checked their batons, fastened the leather neck stocks that were to protect them from strangulation and followed Mendick outside. They moved in disciplined silence that would have not been out of place at Horse Guards but Mendick wondered how they would cope if they met China Jim. They were mainly young men, some still with cheeks that hardly recognised the bite of a razor, and they were mostly from Dundee. They were experienced in dealing with pub brawlers and drunken rioters, but a murderer who dissected and ate his victims was something on a completely new level.
Used to the marching columns of redcoats that had fought in the China War, he was still impressed by the long convoy of hired hackney cabs that rolled out of Bell Street, each one carrying its cramped quota of blue-uniformed policemen. Faces turned to stare as they growled past, the great wheels grating over the cobblestones and then grinding over the roads as the convoy split into pairs and jolted out of Dundee.
“Here we go again,” Sturrock grinned at Mendick in the stuffy interior of the cab. He shuffled his feet in the straw and tapped his fingers against his staff.
“Let’s just hope China Jim is driving the whisky himself,” Deuchars fingered his scar. “He might well be sitting in his den pulling strings and not becoming involved in anything at all.”
Mendick nodded. He recognised the signs of nervousness; the desire to speak, the hectic eyes, the fidgeting. These men knew they could be heading into great danger.
“Once more into the breach . . .” Miller intoned. He was a young man with thin whiskers just forming around his mouth and obviously had some literary knowledge. He looked around, met Mendick’s eye and looked away again.
“Now, you just do as you are ordered, Miller,” Mendick said, “and if you get into difficulties, for God’s sake, call for help. Don’t look for glory, look for a successful arrest.”
Miller nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” He glanced over to Deuchars, who winked at him and resumed his normal bulldog glower.
“This road seems devilishly long,” Sturrock said. He glanced out of the window. “We are just leaving Dundee now.”
Mendick nodded. They were sliding past the variegated fields of Forfarshire now. He cursed as they negotiated a corner and all four men slid together.
Sturrock grabbed hold of Mendick’s sleeve for support, realised what he was doing and let go immediately. “Is this driver trying to tip us over?”
“I think he works for China Jim!” Miller said as they banged into a pothole that rattled their teeth.
Mendick grunted. Compared to marching day after day through the humidity of China, this was a life of ease and comfort but he allowed his men to assuage their nerves with complaints until the cab eased to a halt. For a second they sat still until Mendick opened the door, peered outside and stepped onto the hard surface of the road.
“Right, lads,” Mendick said. “Out we come.”
The constables stepped out of the cab and looked around. They stamped their feet and stretched their arms to straighten cramped limbs. Miller tapped the side of his coat to ensure his staff was securely in place.
“I’ve never been out of Dundee before,” he admitted.
“This is the Glack of Newtyle,” Deuchars said. He pulled out his pipe and examined it as if he had never seen it before. “Good place for an ambush.”
Mendick looked around. Dark and narrow, the road twisted around the flank of a wooded hill. Dislodged by the passage of vehicles and the action of wind and weather, fallen twigs created an intermittent carpet while a number of rivulets trickled from the forest, across the road surface and descended to the wooded gorge on the opposite side. Overhanging trees gloomed above, with sunlight flicking and dancing between the spreading branches. To the right of the road and at the foot of the shallow gorge, the tracks of the Newtyle Railway shone in intermittent silver between the dark green of the trees, and beyond them cattle grazed in fields that rose to the slopes of the Sidlaw Hills. Mendick felt as if he was in a dark, shifting tunnel of green.
He shook his head. “This won’t do,” he said. “I want somewhere more open where I can see in both directions.” He jerked a thumb to the north. “What lies that way, Deuchars?”
“The hills pull back right and left and there’s the village of Newtyle,” Deuchars said. “There’s a crossroad there, and a church.”
“And Mandarin House,” Mendick remembered. He shook his head. “No good.” He looked south towards Dundee but they had just travelled that road and it was equally unsuitable. “I don’t fully like this but it will have to do.” He pointed to Miller. “Go ahead and watch for vehicles. If you see a cart coming, signal to us: don’t do anything on your own. Understand?”
Miller nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” He clasped a hand to his hat to hold it steady and walked long-strided down the road.
Mendick looked for the largest of the officers. “Menzies, you go further up towards Dundee. You are the cork in this bottle. If by chance one of China’s boys gets past us, it is up to you to stop him, you are the most important man here.” He watched as Menzies strode off. “The rest of us will get off the road and in among the trees,” Mendick said. “Keep hidden and only move on my word.”
Mendick knew the waiting was always the worst part of any engagement. He stepped into the fringe of trees and listened as the wind shifted the branches and the small sounds of nature sounded all around. He waited as the tension rose and every movement irritated. He waited as his heart thumped in his chest and he watched a small red spider crawl around his thumb.
He thought of all the other times he had waited, in all the other places, for all the other events. Waiting for the ice to break and free his ship in Riga, waiting for the typhoon to strike in the Indian Ocean, waiting for the order to be sent into battle in the sultry, heavy heat of China. Each event had seemed vital at the time, but now they were consigned to the past, done and forgotten, the days survived, added to the store of experiences that made him who and what he was now. He heard the subdued mumble of Sturrock’s voice and smelled the perfume of Deuchars’ pipe smoke. They were waiting too, living the span of their life temporarily parallel to his own but separate, with their own thoughts and hopes and fears.
A fly buzzed around him, exploring. He ignored it and looked up the length of the road. He touched the butt of his revolver, checked his staff was in place and hoped this day was successful so he could return to his real life in London.
And yet, within him there was a nagging ache that he could not deny. He thought of sunlight coming through those tall windows in Broughty and highlighting the rich dark red of Johanna’s hair. He thought of that gurgling laugh and the changing glow of her eyes. He wanted her, not just for her body. He wanted her mind and her company and her presence to infiltrate every strand of him. He shook his head, still unable to admit this truth even to himself. It had seemed so clear in Unicorn Cottage, but now, with the passage of time, he was less sure of himself and his own feelings. What had been certain was now merely possible.
He focussed, placed Johanna square in the centre of his mind and knew that despite his intense loyalty to Emma, he had fallen in love. The old Dundee, the Dundee of nightmares and oppression, was gone. He had killed it in the Greenland Inn. The past was a closed book and he was already rewriting his future; it was based around a woman who was married to someone else.
“Sergeant!” The voice interrupted his reverie. Sturrock was looking directly at him. “Sergeant, it’s the signal!”
Half an h
our had passed deep in thought. The day had stretched on that much further and China Jim was still at large. Mendick nodded. “Right, Sturrock. I see him.”
Miller had stepped into the middle of the road at the sharpest angle of the bend. He whistled, removed his hat and waved it back and forth three times.
When Sturrock responded in kind, Miller retreated into the trees. There was the sound of jingling harness, the heavy grinding of wheels and the sharp clap of a whip, and Mendick saw a team of six horses drag around the bend with the carter walking at the side. The carter’s mixed shouts of abuse and encouragement were clear and loud but stopped as Mendick stepped in front of him, followed by two uniformed police.
“What the devil . . . what’s this all about?” The carter held his whip in front of him.
“There is nothing for you to worry about,” Mendick said, “provided you are not carrying anything illegal, of course.” He nodded to the constables, “Right lads, take it apart.”
“If you tell me what you are looking for . . .”
“We are looking for whisky,” Mendick replied, “and China Jim.”
The carter glowered as the officers engulfed his wagon. “I can save you a lot of bother then. I have no whisky in my wagon and I am not China Jim.” He lifted his whip as Deuchars unfastened the canvas tarpaulin that protected his load. “You had better put everything back properly!”
There were bundles of flax and sacks of potatoes, new dug from their winter homes; bundles of linen from Forfar and carefully parcelled personal packets addressed to all quarters of Dundee. There were no kegs and no barrels. No whisky. And the carter watched, shaking his head critically as the policemen tried to repack the wagon and replace the tarpaulin on top.
“Who in creation taught you how to pack . . .?”
“Right, off you go.” Mendick pointed towards Dundee. “If you meet China Jim, tell him that Mendick will put salt on his dragon tail.”
The carter grunted. “I’ll be making a complaint to Mr Mackay in person.”
Mendick jerked his thumb to the rising woodland to his left. “You’ll find him about three miles in that direction on the Couper Angus Road.”
The carter spat on the ground, cracked his whip and trailed on towards Dundee.
“That was a waste of an hour,” Sturrock said.
“We might waste the whole day,” Mendick told him, “or meet China Jim in two minutes time.”
Three more fruitless searches were undertaken within the next two hours, and then Miller whistled and waved both hands.
“He looks a bit excited,” Mendick said, “Sturrock, go and see what’s happening.”
Sturrock ran down the road, spoke to Miller and returned, waving his tall hat in the air. “It’s a whole convoy of carts,” he shouted, “three of them!”
“Right, lads. This may be it.” Mendick said: “Back into the trees with you so we don’t alarm them. Come out on my signal.”
The three wagons filled the road as they approached at a steady pace, the carters snapping their whips at the incline, and slowing when they came to the bend. The strings of horses plodded on, leather harnesses creaking. Mendick waited until they were at their slowest and stepped in front of the leading cart.
He raised his hand. “Dundee Police! We want to search your wagons.”
The carter swore loudly, looked at the uniformed men easing from the trees and swung his whip at Mendick’s head. “Get out of my way!”
Mendick had expected this, he ducked and moved in close. The long lash whistled above his head as he swung his staff at the carter’s upper arm.
“You blackguard!” The carter dropped the whip and clutched his injured arm. Bereft of guidance, the horses walked on. Mendick grabbed the harness and pulled. The following carts pulled up behind the stationary wagon amidst a confusion of yells and protests.
“This sounds promising,” Mendick said. “Deuchars, call in Miller and Menzies; two men every wagon.” Mendick gave quick orders and stepped back. “Sturrock, get this cover off! Deuchars, once Miller comes up, you and he take the third wagon.”
The leading carter watched sullenly, holding his injured arm as Mendick untied the canvas cover from its ringbolts. The knots gave easily under his fingers and he tossed the opposite end of the cover to Sturrock. The officers dragged the canvas back and Mendick smiled.
“What have we here?” he smiled at the array of barrels. He raised his voice. “That’s us lads!”
The sharp crack of a pistol took Mendick by surprise and he flinched, and dived behind the cover of the wagon. He smelled the powder smoke but could not see the origin of the shot although he thought it had come from trees on the opposite side the road. He waved the suddenly retreating policemen past to safety, saw Menzies’ hat tumble off. Menzies hesitated and turned back to retrieve it.
“Leave the blessed thing and get under cover!” Mendick roared. He leaped out, grabbed Menzies’ arm and hauled him behind the wagon just as a second shot rang out. Splinters exploded around him and Mendick ducked underneath the wagon beside Menzies as the injured carter laughed openly.
“Not so tough now, bluebottle!”
Mendick pulled the pepperpot from inside his coat and peered between the back wheels of the cart. He glanced at the carter.
“You keep down as well, you stupid bugger! Whoever is shooting might well hit you!”
The spokes gave minimum protection, breaking Mendick’s view into segments that were themselves shadowed by the trees. The leading two horses of the next wagon were in sight, the last hidden by the curve of the road. There was no sign of the gunman.
He could hear nothing save for the soft rustle of the trees, the occasional snort from the horses and the harsh breathing of the carter. The birds had been shocked into silence and the officers too. The carter leaned against the side of his cart, sniffing snuff from a whalebone box. His sneeze took them all by surprise.
“Sorry gents, I did not mean to startle you.” His laugh proved the lie.
“Sturrock, take this bloody man in custody!” Mendick emerged from behind the wheel and swore as another shot barked. This time he saw the jet of white smoke among the fringes of the trees but did not see the fall of the ball.
“Dundee Police!” Mendick stood beside the wheel, counted the seconds it took to reload and hoped there was only a single gunman. He aimed his pepperpot at the smoke and fired, feeling the kick of the recoil.
Three shots volleyed from the trees, one of which ripped close to Mendick’s head and another slamming into one of the barrels behind him. Liquid spurted onto the road, formed an amber pool around the nearside rear wheel and trickled towards the gorge.
Mendick grunted and crouched low. He aimed and fired twice, each shot kicking the revolver back into his hand. There was no return fire from the trees and Mendick wondered if the remaining carters had just fired a defiant volley and then run. Perhaps there had been an escort who had been prepared to fight off a single highwayman but had fled when he realised they were facing the police. He raised his voice.
“Dundee Police! Give yourself up!” There was no reply. “I am coming for you!” He glanced over his shoulder. Sturrock had the injured carter in handcuffs while the other officers had left their places of shelter to advance on the wagons. He raised his voice.
“Menzies, you and Smith begin the search. Miller, you and Scrymgeour come with me. Spread out and walk steady, but if you see smoke or hear a shot, run for the trees. Don’t let the bastards see you bob!”
With the pepperpot held low in his right hand, Mendick walked forward, very aware the unseen attackers would recognise him as being in charge and would single him out. Every step brought him nearer to danger. His smile was twisted. It would be bitterly ironic if he had survived the typhoons of the Indian Ocean and the nightmare of the Chinese War only to be murdered by an unseen criminal, a few miles outside Dundee. The always present thought returned. Death did not matter as Emma was waiting if he was killed.
Unexpectedly he felt the renewed hammer of his heart. There was another aspect to his life now, for Johanna was waiting if he lived. The thought of danger was suddenly much more alarming. Mendick moved faster, jinking right and left. There was no movement from the trees. He entered the outer thickets, pushed back the spring growth of bracken and fresh thorn and peered up the hill. There was no sign of movement except the slight sway of undergrowth in the breeze.
Deuchars pushed back a swinging bough with his staff. “I can’t see a blessed thing.”
“I think they’ve run.” Mendick said. “No matter, we have the wagons.”
The three carts stood in a row, the horses patient, heads down in harness, deserted by their drivers. They looked poorly cared for and forlorn. A whip lay abandoned, its lash stretched towards the trees as if pointing to its owner.
Mendick clapped his hands. “Right boys, get rummaging . . .”
“There’s no need, Sergeant.” Menzies grinned. “Look,” he indicated the leading wagon, where liquid still gushed from the punctured barrels. They were ranged in neat rows, three deep by four across. Menzies hauled himself onto the back, found the wooden bung of the nearest barrel and wrestled it free. Even from the road, Mendick could smell the aroma.
“Whisky,” he said. “Check the others.”
He watched as the tarpaulins were dragged from the remaining two carts and Menzies checked a barrel on each.
“Yes, Sergeant, they’re whisky barrels all right.” He thrust a finger deep into the contents, took it out and licked it clean. “Not the best I have tasted and probably watered down but still, a drop of the real peat reek there.”
“Three carts with twelve hogshead barrels on each. A hogshead holds sixty-three gallons so that’s over two thousand gallons.” Mendick allowed himself a smile. “That’s a fair amount of money saved for the revenue, and a big dent in China Jim’s business.” He reloaded his pepperpot and secured it in its holster, “Let’s get these carts off the road until we can get them to Dundee.” He turned to the first cart just as the woman slipped off the side.
A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders Page 20