Touched by Angels (12 page)

Mr Belcher was six foot five, weighed eighteen stone, all muscle, and had absolutely no concept of either sentiment or fear. As a boy, they had repeatedly flogged him to curb his insolence. When that hadn’t worked, they had locked him in the refractory cell, next to the mortuary, for days on end on a diet of bread and water, and even that had served only to drive the devil in.

As he had grown, his diet got significantly better, as he took the role of an overseer himself. That’s also because fewer of the overseers had had the courage to tackle him, knowing that to do so was a sure ticket to a broken jaw. However, he had become steadily institutionalised, his Achilles heel. For all his toughness, Sir Rupert King knew that Mr Belcher wouldn’t last two minutes in the outside world.

By the time he was so big and strong that nobody dared order him about, there was a clamouring to eject him once and for all.

Sir Rupert, though had recognised that, aside from the fact that he was an almost indispensable overseer himself by now, also knew he would be useful in other areas too, such as rent collecting.

The relief to the men, and Mr Inkpen in particular, was visible when Sir Rupert beckoned him over.

***

A mile or so away, Lil had other things on her mind as she made her way back to the hotel.

In a low voice, she was telling Robert what to do, pressing upon him, for the umpteenth time, that his aim must be absolutely right and that he must exert as much force as possible.

She carried a brown paper bag with all the necessary accoutrements for the successful execution of her plan, knowing this infernal man would be out of the equation once and for all if all went to plan.

“But what if he doesn’t turn up?”

“He will, because he must. He knows he will never see the contents of that box unless he tries to steal the fob from us.”

Robert’s mouth froze as he saw an envelope on the floor, as she opened the door into their room. He picked it up and Lil took it from him and felt her heart skip a beat as she read the message written across it.

You never know when you may need this. A mutual friend.

She pulled out the pound note, certain this was his way of telling her he knew exactly where she was and that he fully intended wresting the fob from her. She smiled. It was going well so far.

***

Bride had dumped his disguise, because it was making him itch. Now, dressed more casually, so as not to attract attention, he had made a couple of circuits of the hotel, looking for its weak spots, with the number 49 lodged in his brain.

He would make his move at about three in the morning, when he was sure they would be asleep.

From his vantage point at the top of a tall wall, in the alley at the rear of the three-storey building, he saw a flight of metal steps to the top floor that formed the fire escape and recognised the obvious means of getting inside.

The sash windows might or might not be locked. A ledge ran the length of the building, beneath each row, though getting in that way would be a last resort.

The only snag was, his left shoe had a squeak. In the dead of night, it would be amplified beyond belief, so he would have to remove his shoes before breaking in.

He had known how to pick locks before he was nine.

He studied the base of the stairs, where there appeared to be nothing to prevent unwanted persons gaining access to them.

He was convinced the whole exercise was going to be a cinch, and thinking again of the rewards at the end of it, he licked his lips.

Twenty-seven

Mr Belcher looked woefully out of place, sat as he was in the Guvnor’s study amid oak panelling and fine furniture, sipping eighteen-year-old Laphroaig whisky from a crystal glass. He studied the two photographs he had been given, drinking in the details, noting mostly the slightly squashed nose of one of the men it depicted, whose name was Tom Bride.

Belcher had been told by Sir Rupert that he was sure Bride had on his person, or hidden nearby, either a fob watch or a key. Sir Rupert wanted that item back, and secondly, he wanted to know where the other was likely to be, even if securing the information meant half-killing him.

The other picture showed a man in his early to mid-thirties, who looked refined and well to do. His name was Adam King, Sir Rupert’s nephew, who might, with the further application of a little violence, also give him some valuable information concerning the missing items.

If he succeeded in recovering them, he would get fifty pounds an item, an unheard-of fortune.

The only drawback for King was that, although Belcher was one of the most terrifying people he had ever known, he wasn’t as stupid as people assumed. When he had asked if the key opened a safe, King had been forced to admit that it did.

To make matters worse, he needed to know the name and location of the bank, and the hotel the woman and child were staying in.

To safeguard his own interests as far as possible, therefore, Sir Rupert had assured him the safe merely contained a few legal documents, which, although vital to him, were worth nothing to a third party.

He could only hope and pray he wouldn’t have enough savvy to open the fob, if he acquired it, and thereby see the box number.

He felt a little more relieved when Belcher said, “All right, I’ll do it, but I want an ’undred per item,” as that meant, at least for now, that he hadn’t thought any further.

After looking suitably appalled at such mercenary terms, and rebuking him for being so greedy, Sir Rupert said, “Very well, but I want results. Clear?”

Belcher nodded and put the photos in his jacket pocket as he left.

Twenty-eight

Many hours later, Tom Bride had removed his shoes earlier than intended, the very moment, in fact, after taking the first rung of the fire escape, for it made a sonorous clang, reverberating the whole length of stairs for the next ten seconds. He had darted back in the shadows with his heart thudding, convinced somebody must have heard it.

He had left his own hotel at three-thirty, dodging the bobbies on their beats, as he made his way here, because if anything went wrong,
although nothing could go wrong
, he kept telling himself, then at least they wouldn’t have an image of him to draw upon later.

When he had finally got his jangly nerves under control, he tied the laces of the shoes together and hung them around his neck. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could just make out the wall he had scaled to get here, which had been no easy obstacle either, though there had at least been the screeching of two tomcats nearby to mask any sound he made.

He made his way carefully up the stairs, ready for anything else that might lie ahead of him. When he got to the top, he was confronted by a solid door, with no glass to peep through, so he had no choice other than to hope nobody stood on the other side when he opened it.

This was the worst part, as there was no way of masking the noise, as he inserted the specially made tools he always carried, as he twisted and turned them, to flick the tumblers inside. He was sweating by the time he heard and felt the tell-tale sudden movements, to indicate success.

As he pushed the door gently open and stepped inside, he had a fleeting vision of being confronted by the owner, with a loaded blunderbuss. There was nobody there. Once inside, he left the door slightly open, so he wouldn’t have to fumble later.

He made his way slowly along the corridor, knowing that however much he strained his eyes, there wouldn’t be enough light to work by, so it would have to be the window or nothing. He counted the doors as he went, knowing he would have to correspondingly count the same number of windows when he got outside. He hoped they weren’t locked.

When he got to the end, he saw the corridor branched off to the left, where it came to a dead end, though there was another sash window, overlooking the road. He was relieved to find it rolled up with very little noise.

After checking there were no bobbies or insomniacs below, he climbed out onto the ledge, noting to his dismay that it was no more than eight inches wide. He wondered if he should put his shoes back on, but the hush was so complete, the squeak might be heard for dozens of yards.

He was tempted to climb back inside, but thought once more of the fob, and the box number, and the riches it would bring, so he carefully tested it with his weight, to be sure it wasn’t likely to crumble.

With his face side-on to the brick wall, the shoes pressing painfully into his chest, and both arms out by his sides, he began inching his way along, knowing if he stumbled once, it would be the end.

It seemed to take forever before he reached even the first window and there were another four to go. He rested every so often and could feel his socks rapidly fraying.

Another twenty minutes before he reached the window he wanted. By then, his neck, head and arms were aching mercilessly. He lowered them carefully to his sides, as he saw a vague reflection of himself in the glass.

Then he heard footsteps. They were vague at first. He had even thought them the beat of his own heart, until they began to echo between the buildings. They were coming from somewhere behind and he had to painfully twist his neck so he could see who it was. As the steps got louder, he heard the sound of cheerful whistling too.

Through his peripheral vision, he saw a cop walking along the pavement on the other side of the street, swinging his truncheon in circles on its string.

Spread against the whitewash of the hotel, he couldn’t possibly miss him.

When the whistling stopped, Bride shut his eyes tight and held his breath for a long time.

Then he heard a match being struck and knew the cop had simply paused to light a cigarette.

It was so quiet, he even heard the impact of the match as it was dropped, and then the footsteps re-started.

By the time they had faded into the distance, Bride was running with sweat and had to wait a few minutes for his heart to stop pounding. Lifting the window from the outside was much harder, as there was nothing to grip, except the thin strips of wood separating each of the nine panes.

It slowly began to roll up with a low-pitched squeak, which during daylight hours nobody would notice. Now it grated on his ears.

The cop was too distant by now to worry about, but if they were only semi-conscious inside, they would certainly hear it and wake up properly, so he was forced to proceed at a snail’s pace.

The window came to a halt after two feet, which was about a foot lower than the one in the hallway.

It wouldn’t be a problem if he had room to stand back and align himself, but he hadn’t. Cursing, he exerted a little more force, but there was no way it was going to budge. The last thing he wanted was for it to fly up suddenly and make a din. It was this, or go without.

He crouched down as much as he was able, which wasn’t far, because his knees were butting into the wall, making further descent impossible. By now the pain in his thighs and back was unbearable. The bottom rail was level with his stomach and there was only one way he could see of getting inside.

He gripped the bottom of the sash in both hands, leaned out as far as he dared, and swung his right leg up and through, careful as he did so not to disturb the curtains. It all became easier now, as he was able to sit on the windowsill.

He waited a minute to get his breath back, before ducking and swinging first his head and torso under and then a leg. He was in.

As he stood, taking his shoes from around his neck, he thought what his next move would be. The most likely place to find the fob would be in the handbag. If not, he would have to start searching their pockets.

He laid his shoes on the floor and was grinning as he took a little step to the right, to where the curtains were drawn, when a mousetrap snapped on the three smallest toes of his right foot.

The thucking sound was amplified, as it diffused through the skin, flesh and bone into the floorboards below. How he managed not to scream out, he would never know.

He took a shuffling step backwards, hot tears in his eyes, trying his best to keep the noise to a minimum and not to tumble backwards through the open window. The trap wagged in the air like a waving hand.

He was almost crying as he sat once more on the sill and took the trap in both hands, to carefully release the tension on the spring. He pulled the wet sock off, delicately, wincing as strands of thread, that had become imbedded in the cuts, were tugged free.

Now, as the pain ebbed and flowed, he knew, as he felt a roll of damp skin dangling from his smallest toe, that he
was
going to get that fob. If they woke up, he would punch them unconscious and not give the slightest fuck if he killed them.

Tearful, he reached down and gently ran his fingers over the floorboards, feeling either side for about two feet, to check for any more nasty surprises. There was nothing, so he lowered his feet to them again, and found he was barely able to exert his full weight on the injured one.

Trying his best to ignore the pain, he slowly parted the curtains and tuned his ears and eyes into the darkness beyond, knowing she might have placed the handbag on the dressing table and that their clothes were likely to be draped over the back of a chair. He advanced gingerly into the room, just able to discern the foot of the bed and two vague humps lying in it, side by side.

He could hear low, shallow breathing and was about to hobble over to the dressing table, when the woman’s voice snapped, “Now!” and a loud metallic
clang!
echoed around the room.

He felt a frightful pain in his head, saw an explosion of stars in front of his eyes and a match being struck.