Authors: Frederic Lindsay
After
he
had
heard,
he
went
back
across
the
street
to
where
his
partner
was
waiting.
'He'd
been
tied
up.
There
weren't
any
ropes
on
the
body
when
it
was
found,
but
they
could
tell
by
the
marks.
That's
three
now.'
They
walked
on
slowly,
more
or
less
in
step.
'Marks?'
'On
his
legs
and
arms.
Where
he'd
been
tied
up.'
'Oh.'
'What
marks
were
you
thinking
about?
Were
you
wondering
if
Jill
had
cut
off
his
prick.
The
second
one
had
his
prick
cut
off.'
'No,'
his
partner
said.
'Merchant
had
been
mutilated,
but
he
wasn't
castrated.
He'd
been
sexually
abused –
but
not
castrated.'
Something
in
the
tone
of
that
irritated
Weyman.
'I
thought
she'd
cut
it
off
him,'
he
said.
'No.
You
should
read
the
sheets.'
'I
read
them.'
They
went
through
a
close
and
checked
along
the
back
of
the
row
of
shops.
There
should
have
been
an
open
court
in
the
middle
of
this
rectangle
of
tenements;
instead,
a
hundred
years
ago
for
profit,
another
tenement
had
been
built
in
the
open
space,
and
people
still
lived
there
although
its
windows
everywhere
faced walls
and
even
at
noon
the
light
was
shut
out.
Buildings
like
that
were
known
as
backlands.
There
weren't
many
of
them
left
and
they
were
all
due
for
demolition.
The
squatters
who
lived
in
them
paid
no
rent,
but
then
they
had
no
lighting
or
heating
or
water;
they
didn't
pay
rates
either.
Looking
up
in
the
dark,
he
saw
the
glimmer
of
a
candle
in
a
broken
window.
Some
of
the
squatters
were
dangerous.
All
of
them
attracted
predators.
By
stretching
out,
Weyman
could
touch
with
one
hand
the
back
of
the
shops
and
with
the
other
the
derelict
backland.
The
place
between
was
a
narrow
passage
down
which
they
followed
the
pale
circles
of
torchlight.
It
was
no
place
for
two
young
people
even
if
they
were
in
uniform,
not
at
two
o'clock
in
the
morning;
not
after
a
body
had
been
found
quarter
of
an
hour's
walk
away
–
a
man
naked
with
rope
burns
on
his
ankles
and
wrists
and
his
throat
cut
at
last.
Still
with
his
ornaments
though;
she
hadn't
cut
them
off;
he
had
been
lucky
that
way.
At
the
thought,
Weyman
smiled
to
himself.
It
was
not
much
of
a
joke,
but
then
it
wasn't
much
of
a
smile
either.
Constable
Weyman
hated
this
beat
and
this
section
of
this
beat
and
having
to
cover
it
on
this
shift
when
it
was
as
dark
as
hell.
Most
of
all,
he
hated
having
to
cover
it
with
this
partner.
Not
that
it
was
her
fault –
any
other
woman
would
have
been
as
bad.
It
was
the
Region's
policy
now
the
force
was
at
full
strength
to
put
a
presence
back
on
the
streets,
constables
on
foot
patrol;
and
with
equal
rights,
women,
who
got
the
same
pay,
did
the
same
job.
He
understood
that;
he
was
an
intelligent
man;
intelligent
enough,
if
he
could
hold
on
through
this
time,
to
go
to
university,
fees
paid
by
the
force,
get
a
degree,
work
his
way
up.
He
could
make
a
success
of
a
career
in
the
police
force.
It
was
even
possible
he
might
discover
a
talent
for
detection.
Certainly,
he
would
make
a
first
class
administrator.
All
these
hopes
lay
on
the
other
side
of
what
he
had
to
do
now.
When
the
noise
came,
some
things
about
it
were
certain:
it
was
a
yell
that
sounded
once
and
stopped,
it
was
human
not
animal,
it
was
the
deeper
note
of
a
man.
'What's
that,
what's
that?'
he
cried
as
their
torches
jiggled
patterns
on
the
enclosing
walls.
'I
can't
see
anything,'
his
partner
said.
She
was
trying
to
squint between
the
boards
that
were
nailed
across
the
nearest
window
opening.
Behind
it,
when
families
lived
in
the
backlands,
there
would
have
been
the
front
room
of
a
room
and
kitchen.
'I
can't
see
anything.
The
light
doesn't
reach.'
The
torch
held
by
her
cheek
threw
shadows
up
across
her
face.