Riptide

§ 22

Hoxton Street was long, narrow and not particularly straight. It snaked its way from Shoreditch station almost to Dalston, fizzling out and changing names just short of the Grand Union Canal. Halfway up it stood the Red Lion public house, and opposite the Red Lion stood Mrs O’Grady’s Boarding House-its trade announced by a hand-written card in the ground floor window: ‘Furn. rooms avail, for respec. gents. No gippos.’ Outside the house was a small black car-a Bullnose Morris. By the Bullnose Morris was a nervous, pacing, slyly smoking policeman, a cigarette cupped between his fingers, the glowing tip facing backwards, as though this simple precaution might make his illicit action the less obvious.

‘Put that bloody fag out!’ Stilton roared as he and Cal got out of the car.

Dobbs dropped the cigarette and ground it underfoot. Stilton pointed at the Bullnose Morris.

‘Troy?’ he said.

‘Upstairs, boss. I couldn’t stop ‘im.’

‘Save it, lad. I’ll listen to your lies later.’

He led off, into the house. Cal followed. Inside the door, a large, stout, worried woman in a pinafore stood waiting, looking up the stairs. She turned when they entered.

‘Oh Mr Stilton, thank Gawd it’s you. What a to-do! What a to-do!’

Stilton ignored her display. Grief or fear or whatever.

‘First floor, is it?’ he asked, and headed up the stairs. Cal followed. Smiled at the woman. In return she told him once more what a to-do it was.

He stood behind Stilton, looking past him into the landing of the next floor, where a second staircase led to the floor above that. A man in a black cashmere overcoat was bending over the body of a big man-barefoot, vest and trousers-crumpled at the foot of the stairs, the arms, legs and neck jammed between the wall, the banister rails and the floor at unnatural angles-as though someone had picked up Pinocchio and just dropped him. The young man was talking to a white-haired man of sixty or so-a doctor, repacking his bag and looking at his watch.

‘All I’m saying is that nothing like this can ever be open and shut.’

‘It’s as simple as this, Sergeant. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, the carpets are worn to buggery and he’s got his neck broken. I can’t see the mystery in that.’

The younger man stood up. He looked tiny to Cal. No more than five foot six or seven-a mop of thick black hair falling across his forehead, so that he was forever sweeping it back with one hand, and shining, black eyes in a pale face. He looked like a freshman student. Far too young to be a cop.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said bluntly. ‘The neck isn’t just broken, it’s twisted. We need a full post-mortem to determine the cause of death. We need-‘

And there Stilton cut him short.

‘Thank you, Mr Troy. Good of you to step into the breach. But this is a Branch matter, and I’ll take over now.’

‘I was just trying to tell the doctor, sir-‘

‘I’ve spoken, lad. It’s my case.’

‘He’s one of yours?’ said Troy with a nod at the corpse.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’

Troy walked out. For a second they exchanged glances. Cal found himself looking straight down into the black eyes as he passed, ebony mirrors reflecting back at him-and then he was gone. Down the stairs, past Mrs O’Grady still lamenting such a ‘to-do’.

Stilton now bent over the body.

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger.’

The doctor clicked his bag shut, took one more look at his watch.

‘Important, was he?’

‘You could say that. Now, before you dash off to whatever’s made you look at your watch three times since I came into the room, cause of death. A professional opinion, if you please.’

The doctor actually blushed a little. Not so stupid as not to know when he was being bawled out. Cal slipped in behind Stilton as he stood up to tackle the doctor and looked at the body for himself.

‘Neck’s broken. Death was instantaneous. No marks to indicate any struggle. Your man on the door says he saw no-one come or go. Only other person in the house was the landlady. Ergo, I conclude the poor sod tripped on the top step, tumbled all the way to the bottom and broke his blasted neck. Happens all the time. Houses like these are death traps. If it wasn’t for the war we’d have ‘em all shut down as health hazards.’

‘Thank you. You can get off to your dinner now. It was your dinner you were anxious not to miss wasn’t it?’

The doctor said nothing. Picked up his trilby, jammed it on his head, last symbol of his damaged pride, and left. Stilton bent to the body again. Side by side with Cal. Cal had only ever seen a body once before, his maternal grandfather laid out in his casket-black suit, combed hair, mortician’s make-up, eyes shut. This man’s eyes were shut. He was almost prepared to bet that the young cop had closed them himself. In seven years as a soldier he’d never heard a shot fired in anger, unless it was Gelbroaster’s the other night, and he’d never seen a body that had just collapsed instantly into death like this. The heap that was death. A grim human puzzle. Take these parts, these tangled limbs, and rearrange them into human form.

‘You seen many corpses in your time, Mr Cormack?’

‘No,’ said Cal. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘This is one Jerry I’d hoped to see live just a while longer. Long enough to find out what he was up to.’

They found Troy outside, leaning against the bonnet of his car, collar up. Hands deep in his pockets.

‘Was there something else, Sergeant?’

Troy stood upright. It made little difference to his size up against Stilton, but it indicated the right amount of deference to rank.

‘You know that’s no accident, don’t you?’

‘Mebbe.’

‘I’d recommend a full PM and Forensics out at Hendon. Whoever he was, and I’m sure you know better than I, he needs the works.’

‘I’ve handled suspicious deaths before, lad. I’ve seen dead bodies before.’

‘And I see them all the time. Forgive the plainness of this, sir-but murder is my business.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant. ‘Appen you’re right. And right now we should both be about our business. Dobbs!!!’

Stilton strode across the road to where Dobbs was hastily stepping on another butt.

Troy opened the door of his car. Looked straight at Cal.

‘Are you working with Mr Stilton?’

‘I guess I am,’ said Cal.

‘Then I wish you luck,’ said Troy.

He drove off. Cal could hear Stilton bawling out Dobbs. Half London could hear Stilton bawling out Dobbs.

‘You were in the pub. Weren’t you? In the Lion. Supping ale when you should have been watching the door!’

‘Boss, it was so quiet. Nothing was-‘

‘While you were wetting your slimy gizzard, someone slipped in and topped the bastard. Do you hear me Dobbs? We’ve lost him. He’s dead. Or did you think the Murder Squad sent Troy out to check his ration book? You stupid, stupid bugger!’

‘Honest, boss, it won’t ‘appen again!’

‘Too bloody right it won’t. Cos if it does they’ll be using your bollocks for target practice down at Bisley. Get in there now. Calm down old Peg before she bursts a blood vessel. Get hold of the meat wagon and get matey carted off. Do a house to house. Talk to the whole damned street. When you’ve done all that, get back to the Yard. Write out a full report of everything you’ve seen and done in the last seventy-two hours and have it on my desk before you go home tonight. Do I make myself clear, Mr Dobbs?’

When he came back to Cal, there was the whisper of a grin beneath the moustache.

‘That looked like fun.’

‘Oh it was Mr Cormack, I enjoyed every second of it.’

‘Good. Because I have a little advice for you.’

Stilton laughed out loud.

‘Come on, lad. Let’s hear it.’

‘That young cop is right.’

‘I know damn well he’s right.’

‘Then why did you ignore him?’

‘Let’s just say I don’t like being taught how to suck eggs by the likes of Frederick Troy. He may be Scotland Yard’s wunderkind, but as far as I’m concerned he’s still wet behind the ears.’

‘Then you’ll order a full autopsy?’

‘Of course.’

‘The Works?’

‘You’re beginning to learn the jargon. But why do you ask?’

‘This is the bit you won’t like.’

‘Try me.’

‘This dead German ‘was a hit man, right? An assassin?’

‘A Dutchman, but yes, an assassin.’

‘What kind of man gets the drop on a trained killer?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘Another trained killer?’

‘You think there’s another one?’

‘One? Maybe. Or do you have a whole bunch of trained killers on the loose?’

It was Stilton’s turn to look at his watch.

‘We’ve missed my Czech for tonight. Do you fancy a spot o’ dinner?’

‘You know a good restaurant?’

‘I wasn’t thinking of a restaurant. I was thinking-would you like to come home? Have something to eat with me and the wife?’

Cal said nothing. He was almost too startled to speak. He’d primed himself for an eruption of bad temper, and he wound up with an invitation to dinner. He’d never been inside an Englishman’s home before. He’d heard they all thought of them as castles.

‘You can tell me your theory on the way over to Stepney.’

Stilton grinned over the word ‘theory’. Cal accepted silently and got back into the car.