The Darkest Walk of Crime (3 page)

Jerking upright, he glanced
around, grateful for the beam of light that Restiaux directed through the hole.

He was in a small chamber with
an arched brick roof and walls smeared with flaking white plaster. A small stove
emitted residual warmth, while the pot on top still contained the congealed
metal that was the raw material of the coining trade. Half a dozen spoons lay
scattered on the ground, together with a number of tools, a pile of documents
and a variety of pens and bottles of ink. It was obvious that a master forger
worked here. There was no sign of Blake, but there was a small opening in the
far corner.

“Sergeant,” Mendick called
through, “the bird’s flown. I’m going to follow.”

“Don’t be a fool, man,” Restiaux
ordered, but there was no strength in his voice. “You can’t wander around the Holy
Land on your own.”

“There’s no choice, Sergeant. We
can’t let him escape now.”

Before Restiaux adjusted his
advice into an order
,
Mendick crouched at the opening through which
Flash Tom had escaped. Taking a deep breath, he plunged in, to find himself at
the top of half-rotted wooden steps descending to a square courtyard piled high
with human filth. There was a single exit between two buildings, so narrow he
had to squeeze through sideways, emerging into a crooked street of misshapen
houses. The dirty light of dawn did nothing to alleviate the dismal appearance
of soot-smeared walls, stagnant filth-spilling gutters and shuffling, dull-eyed
people. Mendick did not hesitate.

“Police!” he roared. “Stand
aside!”

One or two edged aside as he
splashed through the street, but others made to block his path. He barged them
aside, their underfed bodies fragile before his weight. There was movement
ahead, a glimpse of a rainbow waistcoat as Flash Tom briefly turned, eyes
bright with malice, before sliding into another narrow alley.

“Blake! Tom! It’s no good, man!”

Slithering on human filth, he
eased into the alley, slipped sideways and tottered for a second, swearing as
he realised he had walked into a trap.

“Badgered, by God!”

He stood at the edge of a deep
cesspit, straddled only by a single greasy plank. Beyond the pit, Blake stood
with his arm extended and his pistol levelled directly at his face.

“Bye, bye, bluebottle.”

As Blake pulled the trigger,
Mendick ducked, put his boot under the edge of the plank and heaved upward.
Heavy with moisture, the timber did not travel far, but it made enough contact
with Blake’s shin to distract him so his hand jerked aside.

“Jesus!”

The crack of the pistol echoed
around the alley, but the bullet flew wide, flattening harmlessly against the
wall.

It was a four-foot standing jump
over the cesspit, but with no other choice Mendick
leapt, pushing
himself onwards with sideways pressure on the wall, and landed just as Blake
threw his pistol and turned to run.

“It’s a dead end, Tom!”

Without looking back, Blake
scrabbled up the broken brickwork of the wall, finding purchase on the ledges
of windows and swearing frantically as rotted wood crumbled under his feet.

“Bye, Peeler!”

Ignoring the crowd that had
gathered to roar Blake on, Mendick searched for handholds to follow the forger.
His fingers slithered across damp bricks, but his childhood as a climbing-boy,
a chimney-sweep’s apprentice, stood him in good stead, and he followed quickly
as Blake raced upwards and sideways.

“Nobody climbs that fast,” he
muttered until he realised there was a series of iron spikes cunningly set in
the brickwork. He grunted; anywhere a screever could climb, he could follow.

The spikes were old and partly
rusted through, but he had to trust them, pulling himself across the wall only
a few yards behind Blake.

Pausing at an upper window,
Blake glanced back, his breath clouding around his head like smoke from some
infernal demon. Spitting contemptuously downwards, he hauled himself onto the
roof.

“Here! Catch this!” The first of
the slates missed Mendick by an inch, the second bounced from a window ledge to
splinter on the ground below, and the third crashed onto his right shoulder.

He flinched at the shock, and
his right hand slipped so he hung one-handed with that appalling drop sucking
at him. Below, the crowd was baying for his life.

“Die, you Peeler bastard!”
Another slate hurtled down, turning edge over edge before it splashed into the
dung heap below.

With his entire weight dragging
agonisingly on his left shoulder, Mendick
swung himself against the
wall, scrabbling for purchase. He gasped with relief when he found the spike
and clung motionless for a second. He sensed the disappointment from the crowd
as he dragged himself up and over the gutter onto the roof.

Dawn’s early grey had changed to
an arterial red that highlighted the skyline of spires and towers marking the
greatest city in the world. Mendick surveyed the litter of uneven rooftops that
lay before him. Blake skidded on damp slates before ducking behind a crazy
chimney-breast twenty yards ahead. He followed, balancing his feet either side
of the cracked ridge of the roof. When Blake glanced back, the slanting sun
caught him, momentarily glittering on narrow eyes in an anxious face.

“You’re a persistent bugger,
peeler, whatever else you are.”

Gathering his strength, Mendick
leapt the gap between two buildings, felt his boots scrape down the slates and
reached down for balance just as Blake turned to descend another ladder of
spikes. Mendick followed Blake through an open window into a small room where
semi-naked women howled abuse. The building smelled of damp and human excreta,
but Blake was only a few yards ahead, thrusting at a door that led outside.

“Hold the bluebottle, girls!”
Blake roared, and the human detritus swarmed to obey.

“Police!”

Mendick tried to defend himself
from a score of filthy hands. The room seemed full of women, all talons and
bile as they raked at his face and grabbed hungrily for his genitals. One was
screaming, her voice rising to a maniacal screech.

Reaching for his pistol, he
pointed it upward and fired. The shot reverberated around the room and brought
down a shower of plaster from the ceiling.

“He’s got a gun! The bastard
will kill us all!”

The women backed off, some
howling in vitriolic frustration, others gesticulating and promising obscene
revenge. Mendick pushed through the door just as Blake disappeared over a stone
wall into a neighbouring timber yard.

The wall was easy to scale, but
as Mendick dropped down, Blake was twenty yards ahead and easing through the
yard gate; outside waited a dark four-wheeler. Cursing, Mendick stumbled past
piles of neatly stacked timber. As he reached the gate, Restiaux nodded calmly
to him through the open window of the coach. Blood stained the bandage that
swathed his head.

“Glad to see you kept up; you
drove Blake to me very adequately.”

“You have him?” Mendick leaned
against the wheel of the coach, only now aware that his breath grated in his
chest and that his legs and shoulder throbbed with pain.

Restiaux nodded. “I knew he
would run and that you would not give up. Over the roof and through the brothel
is a recognised escape from the Holy Land, so it did not take much to have the
four-wheeler waiting.” His grin faded slightly. “In you come. You’ll have to
pay for the damage to your uniform, of course.”

“Of course,” Mendick agreed,
replacing the pistol in its holster and clambering inside the cab.

His wrists secured by handcuffs,
Blake glowered at him from behind the beard. “If I get the chance, Peeler, I’ll
kill you. That I swear.” His eyes were acidic.

Sitting at Blake’s side, Foster
thumped a meaty hand on his shoulder. “That will not be for a very long time,
Tommy Flash.  You and I have work to do.”

London: November 1847

Although the single window was
closed, the grumble of carriage wheels from Whitehall intruded into the room,
combating the crackle of the fire. Above the heads of the people present, the
brass chandelier swung slowly, sending shadows across the portly man behind the
desk.

“So, Constable,” the portly man
leaned back in his leather chair, small eyes shrewd as he slid them over
Mendick. “I heard that you did well in the Blake case.” He tapped his fingers
on the desk.

“Thank you, sir.” Mendick
remained at attention, his top hat under his arm and his face immobile. He was
well aware that Inspector Field headed the small group of plain-clothes
detectives at Scotland Yard but was unsure of the identity of the man who sat
silently against the far wall.

“Sergeant Restiaux informed me
that you followed Blake even after he fired at you, through one of the worst
rookeries in London.” Field shook a shaggy head. “Why, even Detective Foster praised
you, and he’s not the most enthusiastic of officers.”

Mendick said nothing. Foster was
the first Scotland Yard detective he had met, and he had been vaguely
disappointed. Rather than a dashing man capable of instant decisions, Foster
had seemed hesitant, cynical and unenthusiastic.

“Sergeant Restiaux was quick to
inform me that you are a constantly persistent constable,” Field said, “and I
am also aware that you have twice applied for a transfer to the detective
division at Scotland Yard.”

“Indeed, sir.” There was no need
to remind the inspector that both his applications had been curtly rejected.

“It was considered that you
lacked the necessary experience,” Field explained. He looked up suddenly and
leaned forward. “Are you still interested in such a position?” There was steel
behind the apparent benignity of his eyes.

“I am, sir.” Mendick fought to
control his enthusiasm, reminding himself he was a disciplined constable, not
some flighty youth.

“I see.” Field leaned back
again, pressing his forefinger against the arm of his chair, a gesture familiar
to all who knew him. “You are aware that the detective branch is the most
unpopular in London?”

“I am, sir.” Many of the
population still resented the uniformed police and were even more suspicious of
plain-clothes detectives. To the British public, there was something almost
continental about having such spies creeping around the streets.

“And yet you are willing to
court such unpopularity?”

“Yes, sir. I have some
experience as an active officer.” Each division of the London police deployed a
small number of men in civilian clothes, known as active officers. Mendick had
enjoyed two spells on such a duty.

“I am aware of that, constable.”
The podgy forefinger stabbed again. “As I am aware of your five years experience
in police uniform and the ten years you spent in the army before that.”

Again Mendick lapsed into
silence. There was probably very little of which Inspector Field was unaware.

Having established the superiority of his knowledge,
Field was prepared to be magnanimous. He leaned back again. “I remain unsure if
you are quite suitable to be a detective, although I know of your many fine
qualities. However, a situation has arisen in the North and Detective Sergeant
Foster has persuaded me you might be useful after all.”

“Yes, sir.” Mendick could hardly
believe what Field had just said. He was about to be transferred to Scotland
Yard; his opinion of Detective Foster rose tremendously.  He kept any emotion
hidden; ten years in the army had taught him that every silver lining concealed
a dark grey cloud.

“Well now, Constable, I trust
that you are pleased with your good fortune?” Inspector Field waited until
Mendick
assented. “But you will no doubt be wondering to what special
circumstances I am referring and who this gentleman is?” He indicated the
silent man at the end of the room. “Let me bring enlightenment to the darkness
within your mind. Pray join us, Mr Smith, if you would be so kind?”

At first Mendick
thought
there was something familiar about the man who eased into the circle of warmth
by the fire and placed his leather valise at the side of the desk, but a second
glance assured him that he was mistaken. He would never have forgotten a face
such as that. The eyes alone were memorable, calm as a summer sea, yet with an
indefinable quality of intelligence that bored like a drill, probing,
questioning, seeing everything. For some reason Mendick flinched, but
nevertheless he felt his jaw thrust out in bloody-minded defiance.

“No, you do not know me.” Mr Smith
seemed to have read his mind. “But you may have seen me. Inspector Field told
me about you a while ago, and I have been watching you. The man in the corner
of the Black Bull, remember? And do you recall the face at the hansom cab
window three days ago? Aye, that was me.”

“My apologies, Mr Smith, but I
am still unaware of your position.” If Inspector Field treated him with
respect, the man obviously had influence, but Mendick was not used to deferring
to anonymous authority, and he refused to be cowed.

“My name is John Smith.”

It was such an obvious lie that
even Inspector Field
smiled.

“And I represent Her Majesty’s
government.”

“Of course,” Mendick agreed. He
should have realised that there was something supremely official about this man:
he carried himself with the utter confidence of an aristocrat or a member of
the government.

“Sit yourself down, and let’s
talk.” Smith dragged over two hard-backed chairs from the far wall.

“Sir?” Mendick
glanced
toward Inspector Field, who nodded his assent. He sat cautiously, placing his
hat on his knee, unused to such informality in the presence of his superiors.

“Drink?” Smith gestured toward
the closed cabinet that stood in the corner of the room. “Are you a drinking
man? I am sure that Mr Field has a bottle of medicinal brandy somewhere on
hand.” The grin was so sudden and so conspiratorial that Mendick could not help
but respond, and Field was on his feet in a second, returning with a decanter
and a silver tray on which stood three balloon brandy glasses.