The horse-drawn Black Maria clattered through the streets of North London, a dark missile piercing the night.
It was past midnight by the time it pulled up in the middle of a narrow, badly lit street in Crouch End with a restraining yell from the driver. The back doors sprang open, pouring out more darkness into that which surrounded it. This new darkness had shape and form and substance, as well as steel-tipped boots that clashed noisily with the cobbled surface. For it was made up of men. Men who had been coiled but were now sprung.
Men who had been pointed in the direction of a target.
Two of the men wore police uniforms and wielded truncheons. The third, in plain clothes, wearing a bowler hat and a dark suit, drew himself up in a posture of domination. He breathed in, filling his lungs with the night air.
Inchball gave a loud, dismissive snort. He had the measure of the neighbourhood, even in the dark. This was not a well-to-do street. Terraces of mean, little pattern-book houses, quickly built, occupied by manual workers and lowly paid clerks. Perhaps a few gentle folk who had fallen on hard times.
Most of the houses, including the suspect’s, were already in darkness. That was the way Inchball wanted it. Everyone tucked up in bed, fast asleep. Or maybe they were getting down to their bedroom business. It was Saturday night, after all. The man of the house back from the boozer, expecting his missus to fulfil her conjugal duties. From what he knew of this fellow Masters, though, he doubted there was a missus. Some kind of musician, wasn’t he? Probably batted for the other side. That was usually the way with these artistic types.
That would be interesting, if they caught him entertaining a friend. Something to hold over him. Could be useful.
Or more likely he was on his own. Crying into his sad, lonely pillow. Yanking his sad, lonely cock.
Inchball’s smirk was concealed by the darkness. He raised his hand and grasped the cheap brass door knocker to bring it hammering down. ‘Police! Open up!’
Somewhere down the street, a dog started barking.
Inchball kept up the pounding on the door, settling into a stubborn, belligerent rhythm.
At last a light went on, illuminating the two upstairs windows. A curtain twitched.
‘Here we go,’ muttered Inchball, to himself as much as to anyone. Although the occupants of the house were without doubt aware of his presence by now, he did not let up on the knocking. He was hammering away right up to the moment that the door was opened to the extent of its chain and a pair of ice-pale eyes peered out at him fearfully. The eyes were deep-set in a thin face, above a sharp beak of a nose. A high, domed forehead was fringed with tufts of silver hair. A mouth gaped anxiously beneath a white walrus moustache. An old man’s face then.
‘Roderick Masters?’
‘No. I … I’m his father. What’s this about?’
‘Is your son in, Mr Masters?’
‘Yes, of course. But he’s in bed.’
Inchball showed his warrant card. ‘I’d like a word with him, if you don’t mind.’
The door closed as the chain was jangled free, then reopened. Masters senior stood with his back against the wall to let the three policemen march through. The clamour of their boots was enough to wake anyone in the street still sleeping.
The narrow hall was lit by a single dim gaslight. Masters senior was wearing a long, striped nightgown, from the bottom of which protruded two bare, boney ankles and knobbly feet. He went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up. ‘Rod! There are some … policemen here to see you.’
They waited in silence until soft footsteps padded down the stairs. A man in his early thirties wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown appeared. He had the same thin, anxious face as his father. His hairline was beginning to go the same way too.
‘Are you Roderick Masters?’ Inchball demanded when Masters had joined them at the bottom of the stairs.
The young man looked apprehensively at his father. ‘Y-yes. What is this about?’
Inchball nodded to the two uniforms. ‘Get ’im!’
The men, although they were perhaps not the burliest examples of their type, were nonetheless imposing individuals, their helmets almost touching the ceiling of the cramped hallway. They rushed at Roderick Masters and wrestled him to the ground, twisting one arm up his back.
‘Good heavens!’ cried Masters’ father. ‘This is police brutality! My son is innocent!’
‘Innocent, is he? We have a witness what says he is a murderer.’
The two uniforms hefted Roderick Masters to his feet. The young man was in tears.
Inchball sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’ he snarled in disgust.
Masters’ face was red and streaked with wetness. Snot and blood trailed from where his nose had been driven into the hall rug. A damp patch spread out around his groin.
‘He’s pissed hisself,’ observed Inchball with a derisive smirk.
Masters hung his head in shame.
The uniforms had the cuffs on by now and were shoving him towards the door.
‘Don’ you worry,’ said Inchball to Masters senior with a wink. ‘We’ll take good care of him.’
Behind him, he heard the old man let out a high-pitched wail as he slumped to the floor.