Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness (29 page)

‘What do you mean?’

‘There was you, thinkin’ of Fuzzy as a jewel-smuggler, while to us lads in the barracks he was the feller who you went to if you wanted a whore.’ He smiled fondly at the memory. ‘An’ what lovely girls he had workin’ for him. Some of them couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, but they knew more tricks than any other prostitute I’ve ever been with.’

‘You disgust me,’ Blackstone said.

Tom Yardley seemed puzzled by the remark. ‘Come on, Sarge, everybody’s entitled to a little bit of fun now an’ again,’ he said.

‘And after the letter that you signed there were the two anonymous notes you sent me,’ Blackstone said, getting back to the point. ‘Who delivered those notes to Walter Clegg’s house, by the way? Was it Walter himself?’

‘You certainly seem to think it was,’ Yardley said evasively.

‘Oh, I do,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘He might give the appearance of being an insignificant little nobody, but he played me like a violin. It was Walter who put the idea into my head that you’d been murdered. And it was Walter who first suggested that since Bickersdale’s mine wasn’t making any money, he must be involved with something else. He’s been feeding me information all along—leading me by the nose until I’d done exactly what you wanted me to do.’

‘How
did
you piece it all together?’ Tom Yardley asked. ‘I don’t mean the Bickersdale part—I mean about me.’

‘I was wondering when you’d ask that,’ Blackstone told him. ‘I knew from quite early on that it was someone connected with the gang who was sending me the anonymous letters.’

‘How?’

‘Because of the information they contained. The only people who knew that Huggins worked for Bickersdale were the members of the gang. And they were also the only ones who knew that the
Bluebell
would be used to transport the girl. So when I made the arrest, I was expecting one of the gang to be missing. And one of them was. You!’

‘But you thought I was dead.’

‘I thought that Bickersdale had had you
killed
. But once Robertson persuaded me that he hadn’t, I started to ask myself how an explosives expert like you could have
accidentally
blown himself up. And, of course, he couldn’t. Besides, dead men don’t write anonymous letters.’

‘You’ve been as smart as I expected you to be, Sarge,’ Tom Yardley said. ‘So what happens now?’

‘Now, I arrest you.’

‘But you can’t do that,’ Tom Yardley said, horrified. ‘They’ll hang me, if you do!’

‘Very probably,’ Blackstone agreed.

‘Listen, Sarge, there’s plenty of Bickersdale’s money to go round,’ Yardley said. ‘We could both live like kings.’

‘You think I’d take that money, knowing how it was earned?’ Blackstone asked angrily. ‘I don’t want anything to do with it, you bastard!’

‘No, of course you don’t,’ Yardley said hastily. ‘I should never have insulted you by offering it.’ A sly grin spread across his face. ‘Anyway, if I’d thought about it, I’d have realized that it wasn’t even necessary to try and bribe you, wouldn’t I?’

‘Would you?’

‘Definitely. You won’t turn me in. You could never bring yourself to do it, because you’re under an obligation to me. And I know you: you take your obligations very seriously.’

‘What particular obligation are you talking about, Private Yardley?’ Blackstone wondered.

‘Why, the obligation that comes from me havin’ saved your bloody life, of course.’

*

The
Pathan
warrior
is
lying
on
the
ground
under
the
harsh
Afghan
sun
.
There’s
something
not
quite
right
about
the
bullet
wound
in
his
chest
,
but
Blackstone
can’t
work
out
what
it
is
.

*

‘Now the time’s come for you to save mine,’ Yardley continued. ‘But it won’t be a risk for you, like it was for me. You don’t have to put yourself in the firin’ line. All you have to do is step to one side while I make my escape. An’ then we’ll be even.’

Blackstone put both his hands into his pockets, and when he withdrew them again, each one was holding a pistol.

‘This is Inspector Drayman’s gun,’ he said, holding the barrel of one of the pistols in his left hand, and offering the butt to Yardley. ‘It’s already killed one man today. Take it from me.’

‘What’s ...What’s this about, Sarge?’ Yardley wondered.

‘Take it, Private Yardley!’ Blackstone said. ‘That’s an order.’

Mystified, Tom Yardley took the gun.

‘Now step back,’ Blackstone told him, and when Yardley had retreated a few yards, he said, ‘That’s far enough.’

Yardley looked down at the gun in his hand. ‘What’s this for?’ he asked. ‘Why would I need a pistol?’

‘To protect yourself.’

‘Who from?’

‘From me. I’m going to arrest you. Your one chance of escaping is to shoot me.’

‘But you’ve got a gun as well,’ Yardley pointed out.

‘That’s true.’

‘An’ if I try to shoot you, you’ll shoot at me.’

‘True again,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘And I may even kill you. But consider the alternative.’

‘The alternative?’

‘You’ll be sitting in your cell, one cold morning, and they’ll come for you. They’ll strap your hands behind your back, place a hood over your head and lead you through to the room next door.’

‘Please, Sarge…’ Yardley said.

‘You’ll be aware of something slipping over your head, and when you feel the touch of it on your throat, you’ll realize it’s a noose. You’ll only have a few seconds to wait before they pull the lever, but it will seem like an eternity to you.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Yardley moaned.

‘Then you’ll drop!’ Blackstone said. ‘The prison authorities like to claim that death is instant—but it isn’t! It can take up to half an hour for you to die. Since you’ll be unconscious, you’re not
supposed
to feel a thing while you’re slowly expiring, but we can’t really be sure whether that’s true or not, can we? Because the only person who really knows is in no position to tell us.’

‘I don’t want to shoot you, Sarge,’ Yardley said. ‘We’re old comrades-in-arms.’

‘So you have a simple choice,’ Blackstone said, ignoring him. ‘The
possibility
of a bullet now against the
certainty
of the rope later. I know which one I’d choose.’

Yardley looked down at his pistol again. The longer it was in his hand, the heavier it seemed to be weighing on him.

‘And since you say I’m so much in your debt, I’ll give you a more than sporting chance,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’ll promise not to fire until you have.’

Yardley opened his hand, and the pistol clattered to the floor.

‘I’m frightened,’ he sobbed, hugging himself. ‘I’m so very, very frightened.’

*

They stood side by side, next to the winding shed, and watched the police van coming ever closer. They could almost have been mistaken for friends, had it not been for the fact that one of them was wearing handcuffs.

The hysteria that had gripped Tom Yardley in the mine had drained away, and been replaced by a mood of passive despair. He had not spoken for some time, and it was only when the uniformed constables climbed down from the van and began to walk towards them that he said, ‘It wasn’t really loaded, was it?’

‘What wasn’t loaded?’

‘The pistol you gave me down the mine. There weren’t real bullets in it, were there?’

The constables drew level with them. ‘Has he been properly cautioned, sir?’ one of them asked Blackstone.

The inspector nodded. ‘Yes, he has.’

‘Then we’ll take him into custody, if you’ve no objections.’

‘No objections at all.’

The constables each took one of their prisoner’s arms and started to lead him away. When they gone no more than a few feet, Yardley came to a halt and looked over his shoulder. ‘It
wasn’t
loaded,’ he screamed. ‘Was it?’

‘Come on, you, we don’t want any trouble,’ one of the constables said severely.

‘Wait!’ Blackstone said. ‘I think there’s something your prisoner needs to see.’

He took Inspector Drayman’s pistol out of his pocket, released the safety catch and looked around for a suitable target. His eye fell on a tree just beyond the boundary of the mine. He sighted the gun, and pulled the trigger. There was an explosion and then the sound of a bullet thudded into the thick bark.

‘I…I really
could
have killed you,’ Yardley said.

‘Yes,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘You really could.’

‘Then I don’t understand how you could ever have thought of giving me the gun.’

‘No,’ Blackstone said, almost sadly. ‘And being the man you are, you never will.’

Thirteen

The police property department in New Scotland Yard was a fairly large room, divided into two unequal parts by a waist-high counter and a meshed steel grill that ran from the counter to the ceiling. The area behind the steel grill was the property sergeant’s domain. In it there were a series of shelves on which evidence was stored for as long as it might be deemed necessary. Thus it was that bloody axes shared shelf space with bad cheques, and burglars’ tools sat cheek by jowl with the jewellery those same tools had been used to steal.

The area in front of the grill—which could be accessed from the corridor—was smaller and much narrower. Here police officers waited while the sergeant produced the evidence that the prosecution service needed to make its case, and members of the public waited for property that had previously been impounded but could now be released.

It was to the property room that Patterson went after his debacle with the brothel madam and her solicitor, and there, too, that the madam made an appearance herself, some thirty minutes later.

Patterson was standing at the far end of the room when Miss Latouche entered the office, but—since corpulent policemen in fairly small spaces are very difficult to miss—she noticed him immediately. For a second it looked as if she were about to speak to him; then she tossed her head back disdainfully and turned towards the counter.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ the sergeant asked.

‘You can give me what’s rightfully mine, if that’s what you mean,’ the woman snapped at him.

‘I’m sorry, madam?’

‘You can hand me back the money which should never have been taken from me in the first place.’

Patterson said nothing. He’d guessed from the start that this woman would be greedy—that she’d not only want the money she’d had in her possession before he’d paid her the seventy-five pounds but would claim the police ‘bait’ money as her own as well.

She probably considered it no more than taking her rightful revenge on the police for what they’d tried to do to her, he thought—and he wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if, once she’d got the money in her hands, she didn’t wave it at him contemptuously.

The duty sergeant grimaced at the way the woman had spoken to him, then said, in a very reasonable tone, ‘Of course, madam. Right away. Could I just see your receipt first, please?’

‘Bloody bureaucracy!’ Miss Latouche said, but even as she was complaining she was reaching into her purse for the document. She laid the receipt on the counter, and the sergeant read it. ‘Two hundred pounds!’ he said. ‘That’s a great deal of money, madam.’

‘Perhaps it is—to you!’ The madam turned her head towards Patterson. ‘But we’re not all coppers, struggling to make ends meet, you know. Some of us are used to the better things in life. Some of us don’t need to put cardboard in boots when they develop holes. Some of us don’t even bother to take them to the cobbler’s—we simply throw the boots away and buy new ones.’

The attack was being aimed mainly at him, Patterson realized, but if the madam also managed to offend the property sergeant in the process—as she clearly was doing—then she was not overly concerned.

‘A little courtesy costs us nothing, madam,’ the property sergeant said reprovingly.

‘Now that—at least—even
coppers
can afford,’ the madam said tartly. ‘But we’re not here to discuss good manners. You’ve still got my money—and I want it back.’

The duty sergeant turned and walked over to the shelves. Though he must have known exactly where the money was, he made a great show of checking several shelves before eventually returning to the counter with a metal box.

He opened the box, took out a thick envelope, and slid it—and the receipt—under the grill.

‘If you wouldn’t mind signing the back of the receipt, madam,’ he said, indicating the pen and inkwell to her left.

‘Certainly I’ll sign it,’ Miss Latouche said. ‘As soon as I’m sure the money’s all there.’

‘I can assure you, madam—’

‘I’d much rather assure myself.’

The madam opened the envelope and made a great show of counting out the white bank notes. When she laid them down on the counter again, Patterson stepped forward and swept them up.

‘Here, what’s going on?’ the madam demanded.

Patterson fanned the notes out, like a magician performing a card trick.

‘I’ll need you to confirm for me that this is, in fact, your money, madam,’ he said.

Miss Latouche gave him a look that was an uneasy mixture of hatred and triumph.

‘Of course it’s my money, Fat Boy.’

‘In that case, I’d like to examine it more closely before it’s handed over to its rightful owner.’

‘Well, you can’t!’ Miss Latouche protested.

‘I wasn’t talking to you, madam,’ Patterson said mildly. ‘The remark was addressed to the property sergeant.’

‘Then
you
tell him he can’t,’ the madam said to the man behind the grill.

The sergeant smiled.

‘I’m afraid he can, madam,’ he said, with not the slightest trace of regret in his voice. ‘If you’d signed when I asked you to, the money would now be considered to have been returned to you. Since you didn’t, it’s still police evidence, and if Mr Patterson wishes to examine it, there’s nothing I can do to stop him.’

The madam stamped her foot angrily. ‘This is an outrage!’

‘It’s the law, madam,’ the sergeant said.

Patterson peeled one of the notes off and held it up to the light. He placed that on the counter, took a second, and repeated the process.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ the brothel-keeper demanded, as he reached for a third.

‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ Patterson replied. ‘I’m examining the bank notes.’

‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘There’s nothing at all wrong with the ones I’ve examined so far.’ Patterson paused for a moment. ‘Ah, this
is
interesting!’

‘What’s interesting?’

‘I’ve just noticed that the next few notes all appear to have exactly the same serial number.’

‘But that’s impossible!’

‘Not if they’re forgeries, it isn’t.’

Patterson held one of the bank notes up to the light, and examined the watermark.

Gabriel Moore had been right when he’d said he was well past his best work, the sergeant thought. This was nothing like the high standard of counterfeiting he could have produced in his heyday.

‘Would you mind telling me how you came into possession of this forged bank note, madam?’ he asked.

‘Well, obviously, if it is forged then I’m an innocent victim of a forgery ring,’ the madam said. ‘Some member of the counterfeit gang passed the note off on me, and I never even noticed.’

‘I suppose that could be possible,’ Patterson agreed. ‘If we arrested everybody who was in possession of a forged bank note, the gaols would be full to bursting.’

‘Well, exactly,’ the madam agreed.

‘But when someone has more than one of the notes in his or her possession—and I believe you have seven of them—then that’s stretching credulity just a little too far, don’t you think? Anyone who had
seven
of them must be a member of the gang whose job it is to slip the notes into general circulation.’

‘That’s outrageous!’ Miss Latouche said.

‘And I must inform you now, madam, that the law takes a very dim view of such activities. Indeed, in sentencing terms, it tends to come down harder—much harder—on counterfeiters and their associates than it does on criminals whom I personally would consider to be guilty of much worse offences—those who deal in child prostitution, for example.’

‘Are you saying that...that...’

‘I’m saying that, if convicted—and based on this evidence you’re almost certain to be—you face the prospect of several years’ hard labour.’

‘You’ve planted that money on me!’ the madam screamed.

‘How could I have done that?’ Patterson wondered. ‘These are the very same banknotes that my colleagues seized when they raided your house, and since then they have been here in the property room. I myself haven’t touched them at all until a few moments ago, as the sergeant here will verify. Won’t you, Sergeant?’

‘Indeed I will,’ the property sergeant agreed.

‘You know very well what I mean!’ the madam said. ‘I’m not saying you switched the money
now
.’

‘Then what are you saying?’

‘That these notes you say are forged—the seven ten-pound notes—are the very ones you gave me when you came to my house.’

‘I think you must be mistaken, madam,’ Patterson said. ‘The only money I gave you was a single ten-pound note.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘And if you’ve forgotten that, madam—as you certainly appear to have done—then you need only read your own sworn statement to remind yourself.’

‘You’re fitting me up,’ the madam said, with growing horror. ‘You’ve had this planned all along.’

‘You’re certainly entitled to believe that, if you choose to,’ Patterson said evenly. ‘But once again, I must remind you that your sworn statement would seem to contradict your current claim.’

‘Why are you doing this horrible thing to me?’ the woman asked, in tears now.

‘I’m not doing
anything
, madam,’ Patterson said. ‘Or, at least,’ he added with a smile, ‘nothing that you can actually
prove
. But if you were to spread the word among your friends who share the gutter with you that you
believe
I’ve fitted you up—and that I’d be likely to do the same to them if they dabbled in child prostitution again—then there’s certainly nothing I could do to stop you.’