Summon Up the Blood Page 3

  All he had to do was show them how much they needed him.

  A familiar, almost cheery sound drew his attention: the throb and rattle of the Ford’s engine. Macadam, inscrutable in his driving helmet and goggles, gave a redundant hoot of the horn as he pulled up.

  Quinn stepped on to the running board and let himself into the rear passenger seat. The car was fitted with a canopy, but was open to the elements at the sides. Macadam had the double windscreen folded over to stop the moisture obscuring his vision. The glass discs of his goggles, however, were already covered with droplets, despite the fact that he had only driven a few hundred yards.

  ‘Where to?’ said Macadam.

  ‘East.’

  Macadam wrenched the gear lever into position. Metal snarled in protest. The Model T lurched forward and Quinn was thrown back into the coach seat.

  They followed the course of the river, first north past Charing Cross and Cleopatra’s Needle, then banking east at Waterloo Bridge. The motor car ripped past the slow-moving barges and lighters on the water, an upstart in the society of vehicles, pert and frisky in comparison to their ponderous solemnity.

  Quinn remembered what Sir Edward had said about the importance of the Thames to the Empire. No doubt he had been thinking of the trade that flowed in through the estuary: food and raw materials from every corner of the globe.

  Could one corpse found in the London Docks really jeopardize all that? No matter how savagely and strangely it had been killed?

  The stench off the river was tangy and ripe. Not altogether an unpleasant smell, though there was a strand to it that both fascinated and repelled. It was the whiff of something that you wanted to get to the bottom of. But the more you nosed it out, the more you realized that its source was something rotten.

  Already, even before he had begun, Quinn had the sense that there was more to this case than met the eye. First there was the presence of the Whitehall mandarin in Sir Edward’s office. Then there was Sir Edward’s warning. Why had it come now?

  He wondered if he were not being set up for a fall. But why? In whose interest was it for him to fail?

  There could only ever be one answer to that question.

  They reached Blackfriars, where the road parted company with the river. Quinn thought he detected a look of startled resentment on the face of one lighterman who glared after them as they drew away. Perhaps there was also a hint of envy in his gaze, for their freedom as well as their speed. The river was his life, his destiny. He was trapped on it.

  Their easterly progress was signified by the dingy state of the houses on Upper Thames Street, once great mansions fallen into dilapidation. It was hard to believe that these overcrowded slum dwellings had formerly been the homes of a privileged few.

  The street was caked with filth. Children played listlessly, shoeless and ragged. They looked up at the din of the car, cowed by its implausible gleam. With their grime-blackened faces, they reminded Quinn of photographs he had seen of native children in Africa.

  Only minutes before, he had left the stately glory of the Victoria Embankment, with its imperial monuments and edifices of Portland stone. Was it really possible for such scenes to coexist in the same city?

  Quinn had never seen the attraction of ‘slumming’, the fashionable pastime among certain members of the upper classes. It was like a grotesque inversion of the Grand Tour. Instead of the cultural pinnacles of Europe, these tourists visited the impoverished hives of the East End. But then he was not of their class, not quite. He was not buffered from the deprivation they witnessed by the same layers of wealth and privilege. Unlike them, Quinn was but one degree away from destitution. His job was all that kept it at bay. If he lost that, he would lose everything; all the trappings of respectability he currently enjoyed would be in tatters. He had nothing else to fall back on.

  Quinn’s father had been a doctor. Indeed, Quinn himself had studied medicine, or at least begun his studies, at Middlesex Hospital. But it was not to be.

  His father’s suicide was one reason he gave for his breakdown. There were others. Quinn did not care to dwell on them.

  At the time, Quinn had been unable to accept that his father had killed himself. A more genial, robust and hearty fellow it was impossible to imagine. He was far from the archetypal Victorian paterfamilias. Quinn remembered him as a warm and indulgent parent. A man of standing in the community, yet approachable. He was respected by all, loved by many.

  It was simply inconceivable that he would take his own life. Not because of the old cliché: he had so much to live for. There was more to it than that. His father had believed in life. He had committed himself wholeheartedly to it. Not just by his choice of profession, and by the fact that he spent every working day preserving life in others. But he engaged in his own life – the life he had created for himself through his family and friends – with a consuming energy. The glow of his father’s presence lit up Quinn’s boyhood.

  In retrospect, such energy struck Quinn as nothing short of heroic. Certainly, he could not come close to emulating it.

  How could such a man kill himself?

  As a young medical student, Quinn had been convinced that there must have been foul play behind it. And so his father’s death was the first mystery he set himself to solve.

  Someone else must have administered the diacetylmorphine overdose that killed him. But at that age, Quinn lacked the skills and the resources to investigate the matter thoroughly. He had fallen ill; his mind and spirit had given way, overwhelmed by his sense of having failed his father.

  What he refused to countenance was that his father had failed him.

  They came out at Tower Hill. The old fortress was suddenly there in front of them, almost shocking in its antiquity, its determination to endure. The newfangled vehicle seemed flimsy in comparison, and their assumed modernity in driving it, a passing fad.

  As a policeman, Quinn was naturally interested in the building’s history as a place of imprisonment, torture and execution. Something about its grim, grey walls impressed him deeply. He felt a resonance in the oldest part of his soul.

  They left the Tower of London behind them. Skirting St Katharine Docks, they entered a warren of narrow sun-starved streets, criss-crossed by the footbridges that linked the high commercial buildings of the docklands.

  They sped past a beggar on the corner of the street. He held out a tin cup hopelessly towards them, as if he expected Quinn to toss coins from the back of the automobile.

  There was something incongruous about the man. For one thing, he seemed to be smiling, and what could such a destitute wretch have to smile about? Perhaps he was momentarily uplifted by the sight of the car. More likely, he was the kind of witless imbecile who smiled at everything. The passing clerks gave him a wide berth, as if his madness was common knowledge.

  And yet, filthy as it was, the man’s face projected an intelligence that was more than the brute cunning of a slum-dweller. Well-educated, Quinn would have said. Possibly even the scion of a noble family, fallen on hard times. But something about the mouth hinted at the degeneracy that must have lain behind his downfall.

  If Quinn hadn’t known better, he would have said the fellow was laughing at him.

  Perhaps the man’s story was not so far from Quinn’s own. Even before the funeral, details of his father’s debts began to emerge. It soon became clear that he had left his widow and son with nothing – with less than nothing, in fact. Quinn’s mother was to face a future of penury.

  What was less clear was how this had come about. The household expenses could easily be met by his father’s income as a general practitioner. It was evident that there was some other drain on funds known only to his father. People began to talk about a secret vice.

  The possibility that his father had a secret life in which the word ‘vice’ played a part may have contributed more to Quinn’s emotional and psychological collapse than the simple fact of his death.

  It was hard for him to deal w
ith his mother’s bitterness too. Undoubtedly, she had been left in a difficult position, for which her husband was solely to blame. (It came to light that he had even squandered the money that had come to him through his wife.) The depth of bitter feeling, which at times was indistinguishable from hatred, had shocked Quinn. He suspected it unhinged her reason, as it led her to acts of irrational and self-destructive spite. There was the time she made a bonfire of his father’s library. Judging from their bindings, some of the volumes must have been exceedingly valuable.

  They pulled up in a street of tenement houses. The usual ragged children clustered. They were not playing. It was as if the concept of play was alien to them. They seemed bewildered and lost, as if they were waiting for something to happen.

  Quinn looked up. A gigantic sign advertising DEWAR whisky towered over the rooftops. At night, it would be illuminated, revealing the enormous kilted Scotsman in all his glory, a new constellation offering comfort to the shivering poor of the East End. Perhaps that was what they were waiting for. The moment the sign lit up the sky.

  Atypical Features

  Shadwell Police Station was a square, two-storey building at the corner of Juniper Street and King David Lane. Imposingly constructed with projecting masonry details, it was significantly more solid and better-preserved than the houses that occupied the rest of the street.

  The street urchins descended on them as soon as the engine had shuddered into silence. ‘Oi, mistah! Watchya mo’or for yer?’

  ‘Here’s sixpence to bugger off,’ said Macadam, throwing a handful of farthings away from the car. The children ran screaming after the coins. ‘Think I’ll stay with the motor, sir, if that’s all right with you. They’ll strip her clean. Like locusts.’

  The desk sergeant was a type Quinn was familiar with: all bulging eyes and bristling whiskers. Quinn sensed the man straighten as he entered, almost jumping to attention. The air of respectability that Quinn presented must have been unusual in those parts.

  ‘Good day. I am Detective Inspector Quinn of the Special Crimes Department. I have been told to report here.’

  ‘Ah yes, sir. I-spector Langdon is i-specting you, sir. Hif you will come this way.’

  The sergeant led Quinn up a flight of stairs. ‘A nasty business, would you not say, sir?’

  ‘I am not in a position to make any comment, as yet, sergeant. Not having been apprised of the facts of the case.’

  The sergeant seemed to find this remiss on Quinn’s part. His eyes bulged a little more than usual, with a special significance.

  He knocked on a door at the top of the stairs, opening it without waiting for a reply. ‘The detective is here, sir. About the body.’

  ‘Thank you, Salt. That will be all.’ The uniformed inspector rose almost reluctantly. He was tall, a clear three inches taller than Quinn. It was as if he liked to keep his height in reserve, like a secret weapon. ‘You must be Quinn?’

  Quinn noted that Langdon did not offer his hand to be shaken.

  ‘What do you know?’ asked Langdon, resuming his seat.

  ‘Practically nothing. I am relying on you for the facts.’

  Langdon frowned, as if he received even this with suspicion. ‘A body was found. Male. Age, approximately eighteen to twenty years. As yet, unidentified. There were no letters or papers of any kind on him. No one has come forward reporting any missing persons fitting his description. He is not a local villain known to us.’

  ‘Where was he found?’

  ‘On the dockside. You know the Dewar sign?’

  ‘I’ve seen it.’

  ‘He was found underneath that.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘A dockworker by the name of Thomas Manningham.’

  ‘You took a statement?’

  ‘Of course. It’s in the file. Do you want to read it now?’

  ‘I’ll read it later. Please continue.’

  ‘Have you been told about the . . . uh . . . peculiar circumstance?’

  ‘You mean the blood? Or rather, lack of it.’

  ‘Yes. He had been drained. Like . . .’

  ‘A slaughtered pig.’

  There was a moment while the two men considered the image Quinn had supplied. Langdon frowned distastefully. ‘Have you ever come across a case like this before?’ he asked.

  Quinn shrugged. It was not his habit to say what he had or had not encountered in the past. ‘Were there any other unusual details about the body?’

  ‘The lack of blood is not unusual enough for you?’

  ‘Oh, it is spectacularly unusual. I might say rather distractingly so. It may be designed to draw our attention away from some more subtle, less noticeable detail.’

  Langdon gave a small but noticeable smirk. ‘Quite the Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?’

  ‘Has the police surgeon offered an opinion as to cause of death?’

  ‘His throat was slit?’ The questioning tone was sarcastic, as if to say, Is that cause of death enough for you?

  ‘I see.’

  Langdon sighed, bored with the conversation. ‘Perhaps it is best if you read the medical report yourself. You know what you’re looking for, I dare say.’

  ‘But I am interested to know your opinion. That is to say, if you have reached any.’

  Langdon pulled a face that just stopped short of a sneer. ‘Oh, don’t expect me to do your job for you. I’ve enough on my plate already. There’s the file. We’ll find a room for you to use. I’ll even have Salt bring you up a cup of tea if you wish.’

  ‘Much obliged, I’m sure. If it’s not too much trouble, might he also take one out to Sergeant Macadam, who is waiting for me outside in the motor car?’

  Langdon hiked up his brow in surprise. He seemed on the verge of expressing his wonder at the idea of Quinn’s possessing a motor car, but just stopped himself in time. I won’t give him the satisfaction, or something like it, was no doubt going through his mind.

  The room that Langdon provided was hardly bigger than a broom cupboard. There was a small deal table and a chair with unequal legs. A hatstand took Quinn’s damp Ulster and bowler.

  The file was marked UNIDENTIFIED SODOMITE.

  Quinn opened it up and spread out the photographs. Yes, it was entirely possible, thought Quinn, as he studied the young man’s face. He was what you might call a pretty boy. Girlish looks, accentuated by long curling locks. Judging by the tone of grey in the monochrome images, his hair was blond. He would find out for sure when he saw the body later.

  The dark bruises around the anus, shown in a close-up photograph, explained the file’s title.

  The wound at the throat was neat. One wide, sweeping slash from something very sharp indeed, a razor most likely. The blood must have gushed out from there with tremendous, instant force.

  And so it was striking to see not a drop of blood, anywhere, in any of the photographs.

  The victim’s clothes and body were immaculate.

  Photographs of the young man’s penis were included in the file. It appeared to be of prodigious length. It was hard to reconcile his delicate, girlish features with this coarse appendage. Quinn presumed these particular photographs had been taken because they provided evidence of a distinguishing feature that might aid identification.

  It was possible that the victim was a male prostitute. If so, the combination of physical beauty and an oversized member might be a considerable professional advantage. At least Quinn supposed so.

  He returned the photographs to the file for now, and turned his attention to the dockworker’s statement.

  I was on my way to work. I was working the early shift. It is a six o’clock start. I was not the only one wot seen him. No one else would come forward. Your dockworker is not a great lover of the Ole Bill, pardon me for saying, not since the trouble there was with the strikes an all. Still, I says, someone has to report it. He was lying face down at the bottom of that big sign. Some of the blokes had a good ole larf at that. Him being beneath the Dewar sign an all
that. Drunk as they supposed. But I thought there was something fishy about him. He dint look right, if you know what I mean. So I went over to him. Alright, mate? I says. Nothin. I gave him a little shake. Stiff as a board, he was. I thought maybe he was frozen from sleepin out all night. Come on mate, I says. Then I rolled him over so as I cud get a look at his boat race. That was when I saw it. His throat. Cut from ear to ear. Someone had better fetch the Ole Bill, I says. Some of me mates refused even to draw straws for it. That is how much they hate the Ole Bill round here. So I came straight here and fetched the constable. I have no love for the Ole Bill myself. But I seen that someone had better fetch them. I hope you will tell the company where I have been.

  The deposition, written in one hand and signed in another, had presumably been taken down by the desk sergeant; the poor literacy was consistent with the man’s spoken solecisms and typical of the ignorance and mental confusion of desk sergeants in general. It was dated Wednesday, March the eighteenth, five days earlier. The medical examination would have been conducted in the intervening time.

  The police surgeon’s report was written in the usual technical language, as neutral in tone as Dr Bugsby – the physician in question – could manage, given the extraordinary condition of the body. But Quinn had seen enough of these documents to read between the lines. The frequent use of the word ‘atypical’ he recognized as a coded way of saying, I have never seen anything like this before in my life!

  The complete absence of external hypostases was the most immediately apparent atypical feature. Hypostases were the dark, livid marks which appeared on the skin on the underside of a cadaver, caused by the blood settling in the capillaries as a result of gravity.

  Hypostases begin to form within eight to twelve hours of death. The time between the discovery of the body and its examination alone was longer than eight hours, so it would have been reasonable to expect to see some external hypostases present. In addition, rigor mortis was well established, and had been at the time of the corpse’s discovery, according to the dockworker’s description. For rigor mortis to be so established, the victim must have been dead at least as long as the time required for external hypostases to occur.