The Death Collector (10 page)

‘How? They can't have, surely.' Liz got up, trembling at the thought that the man with the scar that George had described so vividly might be standing on her doorstep. She went to the window and gently pulled the curtain back just far enough to peep out into the murky street outside.

‘Who is it?' George whispered.

‘Well, it isn't your scar-faced man,' she told him. ‘A
reformed criminal perhaps, though.' She went out into the hall, aware that George was following her.

As soon as she opened the door, the figure standing outside pushed his way into the hall and slammed it shut behind him. It was the boy she had chased down the Gloucester Road, and he was holding her father's wallet. He slapped it into Liz's palm.

‘Look,' the boy said, ‘you've got to help me.'

‘Us, help you?' George said from behind Liz, the disbelief evident in his voice.

‘You two know each other?' the boy asked, surprised at seeing George. He pulled his cap off and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘You've got to help me because it's all your fault that's why.' He pointed at George as he said this, his eyes glinting with fear and accusation.

‘What's his fault?' Liz asked.

‘They're after me, that's what. Going to kill me too, if I don't give them what they want.'

‘And what's that?' George demanded.

‘The burned scrap of paper out of your wallet, that's what. I don't know why they want it, but they want it bad. And old scarface Mr Blade says he'll kill anyone that gets in his way.'

Mist hung low over the gravestones like a shroud, almost glowing in the pale diffuse moonlight. The tips of the tombstones erupted from the soft blanket like broken teeth – angled, chipped, discoloured. Then clouds reached across the moon, and the scene faded to darkness and silhouette.

Two figures, made insubstantial by the mist that swirled round them, picked their way between the graves. Silent and pale as ghosts, they were caught for the briefest moment in a shaft of moonlight that escaped from behind the clouds. Between them they carried a large wooden box. They were a mismatched pair – one thin and wiry, the other taller and massively broad.

The struggling moonlight picked out a thin scar that ran down the length of the larger man's face as he turned to hiss instructions to his fellow. ‘Just along here. Careful now, don't drop it.'

The smaller man did not answer, but he tightened
his grip on the wooden casket. The ground was uneven, broken up by the gravestones and by raised areas of thick, unkempt grass and by the ragged edges of fallen gravestones. The mist swirled round their feet as a breeze swept through the desolation, making the ground churn and undulate – as if it were about to give up its dead.

But neither of the men noticed. They were both used to being close to death.

‘Here we are,' Blade said at last.

They set down the casket close to the mound of a new grave. Earth had been heaped over the grave, and the first spikes of grass were poking through the dark soil. There was no stone yet, just a simple small wooden cross to mark the place.

A wreath of flowers lay near the head of the grave. The smaller man picked it up and tossed it away. Leaves spilled from the wreath, leaving a trail across the grave. As the wreath fell against a nearby headstone, a shower of dry petals spilled like confetti across the ground.

Blade produced a knife from inside his jacket and used it to prise open the casket, wrenching the lid off the large oblong box. He blinked and coughed and cursed at the smell, and stuffed the knife back inside his jacket pocket. With a handkerchief clasped over his nose and mouth, he bent to reach into the box and pulled out a shovel. Blade dropped it to the ground, then reached back into the casket for another.

The smaller man helped him lift the wooden lid and they jammed it back over the box, covering its other contents.

‘Let's make this quick,' Blade said. He was gasping from holding his breath as he pushed one of the shovels at the small man. He picked up the other one himself.

Together they began to dig into the loose topsoil, piling it in a mound beside the grave. The sound of shovels biting into the cold earth echoed off the impassive gravestones like some massive beast eating into flesh and bone.

The boy was frightened, that was plain. Liz had left him with George in the living room while she went upstairs to check her father had not been disturbed.

Now George and the boy were sitting opposite each other, neither of them willing to be the first to speak. George knew it wasn't just because they were wary of waking Liz's father, but he still could not think of anything useful to say to the boy who had so casually and expertly stolen his money.

As if guessing what George was thinking, the boy shuffled uncomfortably in the large armchair. ‘I ain't got it no more,' he said quietly. ‘I spent it. On food. Honest.'

‘I'm not sure “honest” is the word I would have chosen,' George told him sharply.

The boy shrugged. ‘You live here, do you?' he demanded. ‘Or just visiting.'

‘Just visiting,' George replied. ‘Not that it's any of your business,' he added.

They sat in sullen silence for another minute, then George heard Liz's quiet tread on the stairs.

She stood in the doorway and looked at them both. ‘George, this is Eddie,' she said, checking with the boy: ‘That's right, isn't it?'

‘Eddie Hopkins,' he confirmed. ‘Didn't reckon you'd be seeing me again so soon, did you?'

‘Indeed not. And I am a little puzzled as to how you found me.'

‘You said your father did work at a hostel in Camberwell.' Eddie grinned. ‘Wasn't hard to find out enough about him to get me here.' His grin faded and he looked nervous again. ‘I tell you, they're out to kill me, or worse. I needed to find someone I could trust.'

‘Trust?' George blurted in surprise.

‘At least let's hear his story,' Liz said.

‘Very well. I suppose, if what the boy says is true, it may also concern us.'

‘I'll say,' Eddie agreed. ‘There are people who want that bit of paper in your wallet enough to kill me. Reckon they'd kill you for it and all.'

George could feel the colour draining from his face. ‘I think you'd better tell us your story, Eddie,' he said. ‘From the beginning.'

The first glimmers of dawn were streaking the grey sky and struggling through the clouds. Police Constable Mark Skipper pulled his cloak tighter about his neck and stamped his feet to keep warm. It might be nearly morning, but the chill breeze was kicking up now, and wisps of damp fog still lingered in the air. Before long, the fog would be replaced by the smoke and smog of daytime London. In many ways, despite the cold, this was the best part of the day.

It was certainly a time that Skipper welcomed. Another hour and he would be off duty. Home to a large, hot breakfast and the chance to put his feet up. A cup of Rosie and then some shut-eye. Just time for one more walk round his patch, he decided.

The streets of London were never truly deserted, even at the dead of night. But here, away from the markets and the main shops, the early hours were as quiet as it got. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of a carriage clattering through the cobbled streets. A dog barked, setting off another. He paused and leaned on the cast iron fence that surrounded the graveyard, staring out across the irregular arrangement of headstones, waiting for the first hint of the sun to edge over the horizon.

Now the light was streaming across the misty cemetery and the tombstones were black against the
brightening sky. At first glance they seemed regular and similar. But Skipper knew that if you looked more closely you could see that every stone was different – the shapes and sizes, the way they had each angled and weathered gave every stone an individuality. Just as the people buried beneath had once been individuals. Now they were all equals – dust to dust.

He sighed and straightened up, ready to move on. But something caught his eye as he turned – a movement where he did not expect it. Between the stones, in the distance. Figures.

The black shapes of two men stood out against the tip of the rising sun. Two men making a slow and deliberate journey away from Skipper towards the far gate out of the graveyard and into Galsworthy Avenue. The policeman raised his hand to shield his eyes from the increasing glare of the sun. The men were almost out of sight now, over the slight rise and disappearing from view. But not before he saw that they were carrying something between them. A rectangular shape. Like a box.

Or a coffin.

‘Oi! You there!' There was a gate further along the street, and Skipper ran for it as he shouted. Through the gate, cold air rasping in his lungs, the sun in his eyes making them water.

By the time PC Skipper reached the spot where he had seen the figures, there was no sign of them. Had he
imagined it, he wondered? A trick of the morning light?

And as he turned, he saw the remains of a broken wreath lying haphazardly against a mossy gravestone. The grave itself was old and neglected. But next to it was a new grave. Skipper remembered it being dug, perhaps a week or so ago. He had walked through the graveyard and exchanged a few words with the men taking it in turns to dig. The next day he had seen that the grave was filled and covered, a wreath laid carefully at its head.

The wreath was now dead and had been moved aside. But the ground was still black and the soil loose. As if the grave had been dug and filled not a week or more ago, but in the last few hours. Skipper crouched down beside the newly turned soil. He scooped up a handful and let it trickle out between his fingers.

It was only when Liz drew back the curtains to allow the first light of the morning into the room that George realised how long they had been talking.

Eddie had told them how he had seen the man with the scar – Blade – a few days earlier. He recounted how he had seen Blade and his accomplice Davey grab the old man and drag him into the grounds of a house. George was impressed that the boy had tried to help the old man. Under the dishonest, insolent exterior it seemed there might be a heart and a conscience after all.

Then Eddie became quiet. He admitted he had not
been able to find Blade and the old man, that he had given up and left. George sensed there was more to it than this, and so it seemed did Liz. ‘Why not go to that house for help?'

Eddie glared at him, his eyes wide with annoyance, and with something else. He held George's stare for a moment. Then he looked away again. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that George could only just make out his words: ‘Because of the monster.'

‘Monster?' he echoed. ‘What do you mean?'

‘There's a monster,' Eddie said, more assured now, as if challenging George to disagree. ‘In the grounds of that big house. I saw it, it chased me.' He held George's gaze for a moment, then looked at Liz. Then he looked away. ‘You don't believe me,' he said. ‘I don't care. I know what I seen.'

‘Well,' George said after a moment's pause, ‘I don't know about that. But I can understand you not wanting to tangle with the unpleasant Mr Blade. I've met him myself, I think. In fact, he killed a friend of mine.'

‘Strewth,' Eddie said, at once involved and interested again.

So now it was George's turn to tell his story about the raid on the British Museum, and poor Percy's death. ‘That's how I came to have that scrap of paper you think Blade is after,' he finished. George drew the scrap of charred paper out of his wallet and at once both Liz and Eddie crowded round to inspect it.

‘… now know which came first, and I can prove it. The answer lies in the Crystal …'

‘So what's it mean?' Eddie asked.

‘I don't know,' George confessed. ‘But surely it must mean something, for Blade to be so keen to get hold of it.'

‘And Lorimore too,' Liz added.