Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness (19 page)

Eight

Ellie Carr did not see the point of re-fighting battles she had already won and, having proved to her own satisfaction that she
would
be served in the King Charles’s Arms whenever she wanted to be, she was quite content, that evening, to let Jed Trent go up to the bar and order the drinks.

Trent returned to the table with a pint for himself and a port and lemon for Ellie. He sat down, took a healthy swig of his beer, then said, ‘Have the powers-that-be decided whether to allow you to examine Lucy Stanford’s body yet?’

‘No, they haven’t,’ Ellie replied. ‘The local police surgeon isn’t very keen on the idea at all and is being very difficult about it. He claims that performing the autopsy is
his
job.’

‘And, strictly speaking, he’s right.’

‘Perhaps so. But the man’s a positive dodo, Jed. He might once have known his way around an autopsy table, but I doubt he’s opened a medical textbook in the last thirty years—and there’ve been a lot of significant advances in that time. So even if there is something to be learned from the body, I very much doubt that he’s the man to learn it.’

‘Still, if he doesn’t want you to...’

‘Superintendent Bullock’s arguing that I should be allowed to see it. And the superintendent can be very persuasive when he wants to be. In fact, I think he’s rather a good copper.’

‘And what’s this “good copper”
doing
about catching the murderer?’ Trent asked.

‘As far as I know, he’s following pretty much the same procedure as he has in all the other cases.’

‘So he’s putting all his faith in finding eyewitnesses?’

‘Yes.’

‘It didn’t work before,’ Trent pointed out.

‘I know that,’ Ellie agreed, ‘but what else
can
he do?’

‘Given the lack of any other evidence, probably not a great deal,’ Jed Trent conceded.

‘And it’s
because
the police are getting nowhere that it’s even more vital than ever that I’m given the opportunity to examine the body. Because I’m the only real hope.’

‘You always did have a high opinion of yourself, Dr Carr,’ Jed Trent said dryly. ‘What about the boy—the one Lucy Stanford was supposed to be sweet on?’

‘He’s gone missing. The local police are looking for him, but even if they find him, I can’t see he’ll have much to contribute.’

‘Unless he turns out to be the actual murderer himself.’

‘I don’t think he is, not for a second. He has no connection with the other dead girls and, from what Lucy’s mother said, he did seem to be genuinely fond of Lucy herself.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Trent agreed. ‘Chances are, he’ll turn out to be no more than another dead end.’

Ellie was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then she said, ‘Did you mean what you said about me having a high opinion of myself?’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘But is it justified?’

‘You sound a bit unsure of yourself all of a sudden,’ Jed said, surprised. ‘What’s brought that on?’

‘I’m
always
unsure of myself—though, to give myself due credit, I usually manage to hide it very well.’

‘Well, I’m blowed,’ Jed Trent said.

‘I’m working in a new field of science, and I’m making up half the rules as I go along,’ Ellie said earnestly. ‘Many of the people I have to deal with treat me as if I were some kind of witch doctor or circus freak. So sometimes I do have a crisis of confidence. Sometimes I do find myself wondering if a good percentage of the work I do is any more than mumbo-jumbo.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

‘But I do respect your opinion, Jed. So tell me honestly: am I as good as I think I am?’

Jed Trent smiled at her fondly. ‘You’re better!’ he said. ‘You’re the best there is.’

Ellie breathed a sigh of relief ‘Thanks, Jed,’ she said. ‘I really needed to hear that.’

*

Blackstone disliked the telephone almost as much as his chubby sergeant loved it, but there were times when it was necessary to put his prejudices against the infernal machine to one side and make use of it—and this call to London was one of those times.

Patterson came on to the line almost immediately. ‘It’s good to hear your voice, sir,’ he said.

And it was good to hear Archie’s, Blackstone thought, even if the sergeant’s
was
so crackly and metallic that it hardly sounded human.

‘I need some information,’ he told Patterson. ‘I doubt you’ll be able to provide it, but you’re the best shot at finding it that I’ve got.’

Patterson chuckled. ‘Best shot you’ve got? Then you’d better “fire away”, hadn’t you, sir?’

Blackstone grinned. He really
did
miss Patterson.

‘I’m interested in a man called Bickersdale, who seems to have spent a great deal of his adult life travelling abroad,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where you’ll need to go to find out about—’

‘Bickersdale?’ Patterson interrupted. ‘Lawrence Bickersdale?’

‘Yes, his first name
is
Lawrence,’ Blackstone said cautiously.

‘There’s
a
Lawrence Bickersdale who’s a bit of a legend among my pals at the Foreign Office,’ Patterson said, ‘but I don’t think they’ve heard much about him for the last two or three years.’

‘They won’t have,’ Blackstone told him. ‘What do they know about him
before
then?’

‘They’ve been tracking his movements all over the world for years. It became a sort of hobby for them—a bit like playing armchair detectives.’

‘Yes, but what did they
tell
you?’ Blackstone asked impatiently.

‘Bickersdale was particularly famous—or maybe I should say infamous—for what he did in Africa, while he was working as a mercenary in the Congo Free State, for King Leopold of the Belgians.’

‘Go on,’ Blackstone encouraged.

‘The natives used to call
all
the Europeans white devils—which is hardly surprising, considering the way they treated them—but according to my pals at the FO, Bickersdale was such a vicious, ruthless bastard that he was
the
White Devil.’

‘Did he have anything to do with the diamond trade?’

‘Not in the Congo, no. I don’t know if there are any diamonds there. But he may have been involved in diamond trading later, when he moved on.’

‘So what
was
he involved in while he was in the Congo?’

‘You name it, he probably did it. Slavery was big business, and so was ivory smuggling. And then there was the rubber harvesting.’

‘What about it?’

‘Rubber grows on vines there, and they used to force the natives to slash through the vines and lather themselves in rubber latex. Then, when the latex had dried, it would be scraped off them, which was a very painful process, because all their bodily hair would come with it.’

‘Yes, I can well imagine it would be painful,’ Blackstone said, grimacing slightly.

‘Still, at least the ones involved in rubber production got to stay alive as long as they were useful,’ Patterson continued, ‘which is more than you can say for a lot of other poor huggers. There’ve been literally millions of people killed out there, and my pals believe that Bickersdale’s probably responsible for quite a number of those deaths.’

‘If he is, however did he get away with it?’

‘Oh, that was easy enough. The Congo Free State is King Leopold’s personal property, and that means his word is law. If he doesn’t object to the natives being slaughtered—and he doesn’t, as long as it brings in the profits—there isn’t really much anybody else can do about it.’

‘If he
is
the same Bickersdale—and that seems very likely—then he’s an even nastier piece of work than I took him to be when I met him,’ Blackstone said thoughtfully.

‘Give me another day and I can probably find out a lot more about him for you,’ Patterson said.

‘Thanks. If you can find the time, I’d appreciate that,’ Blackstone said. ‘How are things back in the Smoke?’

‘The case I’m working on should be over in a day or two,’ Patterson told him. The sergeant hesitated for a second, then said, ‘I think I’m going to have to bend the rules if I want to see justice done.’

‘Bend them?’

‘Well, more like break them, actually.’

‘And why are you telling me this?’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ Patterson confessed. ‘Maybe I hoped that if I told you, you’d try to talk me out of it.’

‘But do you really
want
me to try and talk you out of it?’ Blackstone wondered.

‘No,’ Patterson replied. ‘Now that it’s coming up to the crunch, I don’t think I do. It seems to me that if I back out now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.’

‘Then I’ve just one piece of advice for you,’ Blackstone said. ‘And what’s that?’

‘Be careful—and don’t get caught.’

‘You’re like a father to me,’ Patterson said, and even though his voice did still sound crackly and metallic, Blackstone could tell he was smiling.

‘A father would take you across his knees and give you a good tanning,’ Blackstone said. ‘But, strong as my knees are, they’d never be able to support a fat bugger like you.’

‘You can be very hurtful, sir,’ Patterson said, with mock-sorrow. ‘See you back in London.’

An unexpected shudder ran right through Blackstone’s whole body, as if a sudden dark shadow had fallen over him—or as if he had sensed someone walking over his grave.

‘I said, I’ll see you back in London, sir,’ Archie Patterson repeated. ‘Yes,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘I certainly hope you will.’

Nine

Mick Huggins had never been able to understand why—when he knew he could snap the man in two as easily as he could snap a twig—Mr Bickersdale managed to scare him quite so much. Even now, in the cabin of his own boat, where he should have felt in complete control of the situation, he was finding it hard to stand still under Bickersdale’s penetrating gaze.

‘What exactly did our friend, the revolting Horace, tell you?’ the mine-owner asked.

‘Beg pardon, Mr Bickersdale?’

‘What did Horace Crimp tell you, once he’d sprung you from the police holding cells?’

‘Oh, I see what you mean. He said I’d been a bloody idiot to get in a fight with that bobby.’

‘And so you have. Anything else?’

‘He said that there’d been talk of havin’ me bumped off.’ Huggins laughed uneasily. ‘But he was only kiddin’, wasn’t he, Mr Bickersdale?’

‘Was he?’ Bickersdale asked. ‘Do you remember what I told you about my time in the Congo Free State, Huggins?’

‘Most of it.’

‘Do you recall how I made sure that our native soldiers weren’t wasting bullets?’

Huggins shuddered. ‘Yes, I remember that bit, Mr Bickersdale.’

‘And does it strike you that a man capable of issuing that kind of order is also the kind of man who would make jokes about having people killed?’

‘No, Mr Bickersdale.’

The mine-owner nodded. ‘Good. Then we understand each other.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Did Crimp also mention that you should do everything you could to remain inconspicuous?’

‘Sorry?’

Bickersdale sighed heavily. ‘Did he tell you that you should keep your head down?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘That’s what I told him to tell you. That’s what I wanted you to do. But now, it seems, the situation has changed.’

‘Has it?’

‘Oh, yes indeed. I had hoped that your friend Inspector Blackstone would help me to find something of mine that has gone missing. But he hasn’t, which is
very
disappointing. And to make matters even worse, he appears to have become so suspicious of me that he actually paid me a visit this afternoon. You don’t know why he did that, do you? You don’t know what it was that put him on to me?’

‘No, Mr Bickersdale, I don’t. I swear I don’t.’

‘And I believe you, Huggins. But the point is not so much
how
he found me, as that he has. And we just can’t afford to have him poking around—not with one shipment due to arrive in the next couple of days, and another shipment due out again almost immediately.’

‘You’re right, there, Mr Bickersdale,’ Mick Huggins said.

‘Of course I’m right,’ the mine-owner agreed. ‘If I could postpone the outward shipment, then I would, but our client is likely to turn very unpleasant if he doesn’t get the goods when he’s expecting them, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t like foreigners, so I wouldn’t know,’ Huggins said. Then, catching the glint in Bickersdale’s eye, he quickly added, ‘but I’m sure you’re as right about that, as you have been about everythin’ else.’

‘So if the mountain won’t go to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain,’ Bickersdale said. He paused again. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?’

‘Course I do, Mr Bickersdale,’ Huggins said, unconvincingly. ‘It’s as clear as daylight.’

‘Let me put it another way that you might find easier to comprehend,’ Bickersdale said. ‘If we can’t stop the shipment when Blackstone’s here, then we’ll have to stop Blackstone being here when there’s a shipment.’

Huggins smiled, a process that involved revealing a row of crooked and broken teeth. ‘You want me to nobble him?’ he asked.

‘That’s about the long and short of it,’ Bickersdale agreed. ‘I’ll fix him so he won’t be able to walk for a month,’ Huggins promised.

Bickersdale frowned. ‘I’m afraid that simply won’t do,’ he said. ‘If we hurt him, we’ll only confirm his suspicions. I want the solution we employ to be more permanent.’

‘You want me to kill him?’

‘Exactly.’

Huggins smiled happily. ‘Will a razor job suit you?’ he asked. ‘Sneak up behind him an’ slit his throat?’

‘No, a razor job will most certainly
not
suit me,’ Bickersdale snapped. ‘If I’d wanted him murdered, I’d have had him shot while he was up at the mine. But a murdered policeman—or even one who suddenly disappears—gets other policemen asking questions I’d really rather not have them ask.’

‘I thought you
wanted
him killed.’

‘Oh, I do. But I want him to have a fatal accident, to which there will be no witnesses. And I want you to arrange that accident. You have no objections to that, I take it.’

Huggins’s smile widened. Whatever he’d promised the solicitor, he’d been planning to do Blackstone over anyway—and the fact that he was doing it with his boss’s approval was just the icing on the cake.

‘I don’t have no objections at all,’ he said. ‘How will we do it?’

‘Blackstone has been showing an unhealthy interest in the salt works. If he had an opportunity to take a closer look at it, I’m sure he would. And I plan to create that opportunity for him.’

‘An’ then what happens?’

‘Think about it, Huggins. What sort of accident could you have in a salt works?’

Mick Huggins frowned; then his grin returned, and he said, ‘Oh, yeah!’

Bickersdale stood up, and walked to the door. ‘Make yourself available in the morning. I’ll get word to you when I need you.’ He opened the hatch, looked around outside, then turned back to face Huggins again. ‘Oh, by the way…’

‘Yes, Mr Bickersdale?’

‘That girl who disappeared yesterday…’

‘What about her?’

‘It turns out that she was raped, strangled and then thrown into one of the flashes.’

‘Yes, I heard that myself.’

‘Was it you? Were you the one who did it?’

‘Oh no, Mr Bickersdale; I swear it wasn’t me.’

The mine-owner gave the boatman a smile that chilled his blood. ‘Liar!’ he said pleasantly.

*

The dinner, which the Chief Constable of Staffordshire had invited Superintendent Bullock to, was supposed to be no more than a pleasant social event, but Bullock had other ideas. He saw it as an ideal opportunity to attempt to outflank all the local opposition and wrest possession of Lucy Stanford’s corpse from their hands.

Bullock launched his undeclared campaign with the arrival of the game soup. ‘You might consider allowing Dr Carr to perform the autopsy,’ he remarked casually. ‘She’s said to be quite brilliant at her job—and she does have Home Office approval.’

‘This isn’t any reflection on you personally, Bullock, but I’m sick and tired of the people in London thinking that they can run our affairs for us,’ the Chief Constable replied, as he sucked the soup through his thick moustache. ‘We’re not exactly country yokels up here, you know. My own medical examiner—Charlie Waddle—is a perfectly sound sort of chap.’

The Scotland Yard man nodded, and bided his time. ‘Perhaps Dr Carr and Dr Waddle could perform the autopsy together,’ he suggested over the Beef Wellington.

‘Charlie Waddle would never stand for that,’ the Chief Constable informed him. ‘He’s a firm believer in keeping women in their place, and—unless they’re dead—that place certainly isn’t in the police morgue.’

By the time they reached the nightcap stage, Bullock had decided he had no choice but to adopt desperation tactics. ‘Dr Carr wants to get her hands on the girl’s body very badly...’ he said.

‘I’m sure she does. But we can’t always have—’

‘...and I want to get my hands on
her
body very badly, too.’

The Chief Constable almost choked on his brandy. ‘Fancy her, do you, old man?’

‘It’s a little more than that,’ Bullock said, hating himself even as he lied. ‘It’s becoming a positive obsession with me. I just can’t sleep at night for thinking about her.’

‘Well, you old ram!’ the Chief Constable said. ‘And am I to suppose that if she doesn’t get what she wants, she won’t let you have what
you
want?’

‘Yes, she’s made that very clear.’

The Chief Constable tut-tutted. ‘These modern women,’ he said. ‘They’re little better than whores, when you think about it.’

‘True,’ Bullock agreed, and then, hating himself again, he added, ‘But you must admit, she’s a very
tasty
whore.’

The Chief Constable thought it over for a while. ‘Don’t like to see any colleague of mine going without his oats,’ he said finally, ‘especially when he feels that they’re oats he’d particularly enjoy. I’ll have a word with Charlie Waddle first thing in the morning. He won’t like it, but since he’s coming up for election as Grand Master of the Lodge—and since he’s going to need my support to get it—he’s not likely to kick up too much of a fuss, either.’

‘Thank you,’ Bullock said.

‘I mean, it’s not as if either Charlie or your Dr Carr is likely to learn anything from examining the body, now is it?’

‘Quite,’ Bullock agreed—and immediately sent word round to Ellie Carr’s lodgings that she could begin her autopsy the first thing the next morning.

*

Jamie Green had taken refuge in an abandoned pottery on the edge of town, but he knew that he could not stay there for ever—because even if the police didn’t find him, hunger would eventually drive him out into the open.

When they caught him, the police would be bound to blame him for what had happened to Lucy, he told himself, and in
so
many
ways, they would be quite right to do so.

His darling girl would never have left her house if it hadn’t been for him.

She would never have met the monster who had killed her if it hadn’t been for him.

It
was
all his fault!

He heard a scuttling sound in the corner, and turned just in time to see a big rat disappear under a pile of rubble.

It would not be the only rat in this building, he thought. There were probably legions of them hiding in the brickwork. Perhaps, when he fell asleep, they would all come out of hiding and pounce on him. There would be hundreds of them, digging their needle-sharp little teeth into his body. He wouldn’t be able to defend himself, and though he might roll around the floor, screaming in agony, they would hold on—ripping at his flesh, gnawing at his bones.

Yes, perhaps that was what would happen. Perhaps he would die in excruciating pain. And perhaps, after all that had gone before it—all he had
allowed
to go before it—that would be no more than a fitting end.

*

It was a little after midnight. Blackstone had been asleep for half an hour, and he was back in the cave in Afghanistan again.

No, not
in
the cave, but
outside
it—shielding his eyes from the blazing sun, trying to get his thoughts straight.

‘He was out here waiting for me when I came out of the cave,’ Tom Yardley says, pointing down at the dead Afghan. ‘He got off the first shot, and I’d have been dead myself if his rifle hadn’t jammed.’

Blackstone looks down at the man. There is something not quite right about that wound in the Pathan’s chest, he tells himself, but somehow he can’t put his finger on exactly what it is.

*

Blackstone awoke with a sudden start, his heart beating like a drum roll, his pulse throbbing at twice its normal rate.

Why, when he had not thought about that particular incident in his Afghanistan adventures for years, was he suddenly having this same dream about it over and over again?

He fumbled in the darkness for his cigarettes, and lit one up. The answer was obvious, he decided, as he inhaled the acrid smoke. He had not thought of
Tom
Yardley
for years, either, but it was only natural that Tom’s letter—and his own presence in the village where Tom had met his sudden and convenient death—should bring those days back to him.

And yet, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t actually having the
same
dream at all.

What was happening was that each time the dream intruded, it was getting shorter, so that now it didn’t feature the
inside
of the cave at all. It was almost as if there was some part of his sleeping mind that was honing the dream down—focusing it on what really mattered.

But that made no sense at all. Why should it need to be honed down? What was the point of focusing on
any
of it? Afghanistan was long in the past. It could have no possible bearing on what was happening at that moment.

Blackstone stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and fell immediately asleep again.