Symington was squeezed in the back of the Model T, between Quinn and Leversedge. He was seated bolt upright, staring straight ahead, his right knee jerking up and down compulsively. The junkie had calmed down a little since Quinn had allowed him access to his bag of powder. That is to say, his terror of Benson had abated, to be replaced by a belief in his own invulnerability, which Quinn had exploited. An electric energy pulsed in him, which was as likely to burn him up as power him forward.
He appeared to be capable of anything, except understanding the situation he was in.
As usual, Macadam was driving too fast, taking too many risks, and leaning on the horn too much. But Quinn could hardly blame him.
As they hurtled along the streets of the East End, Quinn was aware of a growing sense of déjà vu. It was not so surprising. He had often sat in the back of this car, to be driven at speed towards the denouement of an investigation by DS Macadam. But the presentiment sharpened into something precise and irrefutable. He identified it as a sense of impending doom.
‘What makes you think the boy will be there?’ said Leversedge, speaking across Symington. His tone was interested rather than challenging. There might even have been a hint of respect in it. As always with Leversedge, it was hard to tell for sure.
Quinn turned to face his questioner. ‘We now have a positive link between Sir Aidan and Tiggie Benson. Fonthill owed Benson money. Perhaps when he heard about Fonthill’s death, Benson considered the debt still outstanding and decided to take John Fonthill in lieu of the money.’
‘Good God! For what purpose?’
Quinn looked into Leversedge’s eyes, as if the answer to that question lay there. ‘Who can say?’
‘Do you think Benson killed Sir Aidan?’
Quinn chose to evade the question. ‘At the moment, my priority lies in recovering John Fonthill alive.’
Beside him, Symington continued to jiggle his right leg frantically. Quinn felt it bumping against his own. He reached out his left hand and clamped it down tightly on the offending limb. Under the pressure of Quinn’s hand the leg stayed still, but the rest of Symington’s body began to quake. His face gradually turned bright red as he clamped his jaw shut. A moment later, he threw back his head, his mouth gaped open and an animal howl filled the car.
Macadam pulled up outside Shadwell Police Station at Leversedge’s suggestion. ‘We can’t go in without back-up,’ he had argued.
To Quinn’s mind, Leversedge was showing himself to be too much of a stickler for procedure, perhaps because he had a reputation for playing fast and loose with such niceties during the earlier part of his career. He didn’t want Leversedge crashing in with a troop of big-booted bobbies, ruining everything. ‘Remember, DI Leversedge. Softly softly.’
Leversedge nodded impatiently as he got out of the car. ‘You’ll wait for me here?’
‘No,’ replied Quinn bluntly. ‘We don’t have time.’
Leversedge hesitated with the open door in his hand. He glanced at the quivering wreck of a man next to Quinn. ‘This is insane.’
Quinn did not disagree.
‘What if …?’ But there were so many ways of ending that sentence that Leversedge left it at that, merely shaking his head in despair.
Macadam gunned the engine. Leversedge gave a grim nod and threw the door away from him.
The Model T lurched away.
Symington took them to an unmade street of rundown, terraced houses.
‘You’re sure this is the place?’ said Quinn, taking in the broken windows and missing roof tiles of some of the houses in the street. The feeling of déjà vu had intensified. So too, his dread.
A large, ostentatious car with gleaming gold paintwork was parked up in front of one of the houses, which had its curtains drawn. The car actually looked like two models that had been welded together, or a motor car joined to a horse-drawn carriage with facing seats. The front was a boxy compartment with open sides and a hard canopy, while the rear, which stuck out like a beetle’s behind, had a folding hood for touring. Whatever the effect, it was at odds with the air of poverty that prevailed in the street.
‘You see that car?’ said Symington, sniffing frantically, as if it was the only way he had of keeping his panic inside him. ‘Who do you think that belongs to?’
‘Benson?’
Symington nodded energetically.
Macadam turned round in the front seat. ‘I say, sir. You know where we are, don’t you? It was night when we last came here. But there was a full moon, I seem to remember. And I’d recognize the place anywhere.’
A chill passed through Quinn as he remembered the details of the earlier case. It was the smell from the buckets of blood in the cellar that came back to him most vividly, so strong in his nostrils that he almost believed the street was flooded with blood. ‘It’s the same house.’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
Quinn nodded. His earlier feeling of impending doom made sense now. ‘How many men will there be in there?’ he demanded of Symington.
Symington shrugged. ‘Varies.’
‘Between what and what?’
‘Hard to say.’
Macadam chipped in. ‘That’s a 1912 Praga Grand. It will seat two in the front and four comfortably in the back – five or six at a squeeze. That’s a maximum of eight, with the possibility of a couple of extra men on the running boards. That could mean we’re looking at as many as ten. Possibly even more, if others came here by other means. On the other hand, it may just be one, if the driver is here on his own.’
‘Thank you, Macadam,’ said Quinn drily. ‘That was very helpful.’
‘Do you think we should wait for Leversedge and the locals?’
Quinn sighed. ‘The longer we wait, the more chance there is of something happening to the boy.’ He turned to Symington, whose sniffling was nonstop now. ‘As long as you stick to the plan, everything will be fine. You remember what we discussed?’
But Symington stared at him with vacant eyes.
Quinn ran through the details one more time. ‘You want to talk to him about a deal. A big deal. A very big deal. There’s a man you want him to meet. A man from out of town by the name of …’
‘Quinn!’ cried Symington excitedly, pleased with himself for remembering something.
‘No. Not Quinn. You don’t use my name. Any name but mine. Let’s say …’ But strangely, Quinn found it impossible to think of a suitable name. Until it suddenly came to him. ‘Moon. Mr Moon. Mr Moon from out of town. Mr Moon is very wealthy. Mr Moon has society connections. Mr Moon can shift a lot of product. You tell him he really should meet Mr Moon. Mr Moon could be very good for business.’
‘Who’s Mr Moon?’
‘I’m Mr Moon. I’ll be here in the car waiting.’ Quinn glanced out at the rubble-strewn street. A gang of ragged children, malnourished and filthy, ran about, screaming for all they were worth as they played out their angry, unfathomable game. Quinn noticed that they kept their distance from the golden touring car. No doubt they knew who the owner was. Perhaps they were keeping an eye on it for Benson. They could even be watching the street. In which case, they’d almost certainly raise the alarm the moment the local police turned up. They may have had outlying detachments in the adjoining streets who would pass the word along.
There was no time to waste.
‘Off you go then, Mr Symington.’
But Symington was shaking his head in a big, side-to-side pivot of refusal. ‘He’s not going to buy it! He’ll never believe it! You don’t know him. He can see right through you. He’s got these big, bulging eyes that see right through you!’
‘Remember what we talked about. Remember why you’re doing this. This is your chance, Symington. This is your chance to be rid of Benson. You hate Benson, remember. Benson is a giant toad who squats on you, holding you back, squeezing the life out of you. With Benson out of the way, you’ll be free. You’ll be Mr Big. Cock of the walk. You’ll take over his business. Deal directly with his suppliers. All his men will come over to you. You don’t need Benson.’
Symington’s violent head shaking had transformed into equally violent nodding at Quinn’s vision of a grandiose future. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes. I just … need … some more … snow.’
Quinn nodded to Macadam, who had turned round in his seat to watch. Macadam handed over the leather bag. The two policemen averted their eyes as Symington indulged his weakness.
A moment later, they were watching Symington stride across the street with a drug-charged swagger. The street children broke off from their game to watch him in silence. Symington reached the front door of one of the houses. They saw his body twitch with the force of a massive sniff, then he raised his hand to rap a knuckle against the flaking paintwork.
Quinn counted twenty tense seconds. Symington knocked again. The door opened; Quinn did not see by whom. Symington was admitted. The door closed with an ominous shudder behind him.
‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ asked Macadam.
Quinn watched the children, whose game had become suddenly subdued at the action on the street. They watched him too, with large, unblinking eyes. ‘Neutralize them.’
‘Neutralize them?’
‘Yes. Ten to one they are in Benson’s pocket. I don’t want them tipping him off when Leversedge arrives with back-up.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘Also, I don’t want them getting caught in any crossfire.’
A deep frown rippled across Macadam’s brow at the mention of crossfire. ‘How do you suggest I neutralize them?’ It seemed he was still struggling with Quinn’s choice of word.
‘You’ll think of something, DS Macadam. You always do.’ Quinn took out his warrant card and handed it to his sergeant. ‘By the way, you’d better have this. In case they make me turn out my pockets.’
Macadam shook his head unhappily but took the warrant card. ‘I really wish we’d waited for Leversedge.’
The door to the house opened and Symington stepped out. He raised his hand and waved for Quinn to come inside.
‘Too late for that now.’
Quinn knew immediately that the situation was more dangerous than he needed it to be, and was in fact already out of his control.
He identified Tiggie Benson from his bulbous eyes. Some kind of thyroid condition, he speculated. Either that or internalized rage forcing his eyes out. Benson certainly appeared angry. He was pacing the room – a dingy parlour at the back of the house – with the quick, jerky steps of a short-legged man. He repeatedly punched the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. There were two other men there. Big brutes with clippered haircuts, sharp suits and confused expressions. Physically, they dwarfed Benson, but there was no doubt who had the power in that room.
There might be others in other rooms, of course. If John Fonthill was being held there, Benson may have stationed men to guard him.
What complicated things was the presence of two women. Quinn was not prepared for that. They were dressed flashily, literally – the sparkle of diamonds flickered about them. Fur stoles were draped over their shoulders as they shuddered away their distaste for their surroundings. No doubt they knew the grisly history of the place. They were pale, cold-eyed, pretty things, seated side by side on a tatty chaise longue, one filing the other’s nails. They barely glanced up from the task when Quinn came in. But still, they had enough time to take in all they needed to. He revised his opinion of one of them, the subservient one engaged in grooming the other. He had been unfair to her, he now thought, lumping her together with her companion. He now saw that she had a softer face, which hinted at some chink of humanity that he might be able to exploit. It was possible that her fixed, empty expression came from fear. Equally, it could be narcotically induced.
Benson broke off from pacing the room to look Quinn up and down thoroughly. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘My name is Moon.’
‘Man in the moon?’
‘No. Mr Moon.’
‘Mr Moon? What are you, Mr Moon?’
‘What am I? Did my friend not—?’
‘Your friend? This your friend, ’ere?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tut-tut. You’re not very good friends, are you? I don’t think you know each other very well at all. You say your name is Moon. Mr Moon. That’s what you said, ain’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, your friend ’ere, he says your name is Quinn.’
Quinn did not miss a beat, kept his tone even and unflustered. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes? What do you mean, fucking yes? Is you Quinn or is you Moon?’
‘I do sometimes go by the name Quinn. I find it useful in my line of business to have a number of aliases I can call upon.’
‘Now what line of business would that be?’
‘It’s one that sometimes places me on the wrong side of the law. And so, I am obliged to take precautions. I am sure you understand.’
‘No. In fact, I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re talking about.’
Quinn pressed on. ‘I have other names too. Thompson, Mendez, Pettifer, Dunston … So, yes, now that I think of it, it’s quite possible that Symington knows me as Quinn. I sometimes forget what name I’ve given to whom.’
‘I’ll just call you Cunt then, shall I?’
Quinn winced in the aftershock of Benson’s rage.
‘Or maybe Copper.’
Symington began to shake uncontrollably. At the same time, he let out a strange, stifled snorting noise that resolved itself into high-pitched laughter. It was certainly an annoying sound. Tiggie Benson screwed up his face in a pained wince before screaming in Symington’s face: ‘Shut up!’
But the overstimulated junkie couldn’t stop.
‘I said shut the fuck up!’
It went on for what seemed like an eternity. Symington giggling horribly. Benson screaming at him to Shut up!
Giggling.
Screaming.
Giggling.
Screaming.
Giggling.
Until Tiggie Benson pulled a revolver from inside his jacket and held it up towards Symington. When even the threat of a gun did not stem the laughter, Benson did the only thing he could. He fired into Symington’s mouth at point-blank range. The crack of the report was startling. As was the deafened silence that rushed in to fill the vacuum in its aftermath. Symington slumped to the floor, writhing like a hooked fish. There was still some noise coming from him that might – still – have been laughter, but it was very changed from the giggling he had just been producing. It was more of a gurgling. It suggested something rent and ragged and flapping and flooded. It went on for longer than any of the men standing over it would have thought possible. In many ways, it was a far more jarring noise than the one Benson had attempted to silence.
It was only now that one of the women screamed and ran from the room. The delayed reaction could be put down to shock. Quinn was not surprised to see that it was the woman whose more sympathetic face he had noted. She dropped the nail file as she fled. Her companion tilted her head upwards in an expression of icy disdain that seemed to have been provoked by the dropped nail file as much as anything. A small, tight, vicious smile played around the corners of her mouth.
‘Right,’ said Benson, when the noise in Symington’s throat finally died down. ‘I can hear myself think now.’
‘I’m glad you did that,’ said Quinn.
‘What?’
‘We don’t need him.’
‘You know what, Mr Moon? I don’t give a fuck what you think.’ Benson’s gun hand hung limply by his side, his energy spent by the violence he had just unleashed, for the moment at least. His other hand trembled as he held it up to pinch his forehead in thought.
The look of confusion that Quinn had detected in the two henchmen deepened. They were out of their depth, that much was clear. And it was their boss who had taken them there.
The only person who seemed to be enjoying herself was the woman on the chaise longue. Quinn could not be sure, because he was not looking at her directly, but he had the sense that she licked her lips.
In these situations, if it was possible to think in terms of ‘these situations’ in what was essentially a unique moment in the world’s history, Quinn had often noticed that time simultaneously moved both quickly and slowly. Perhaps there had not been an eternity of giggling and screaming before Benson had shot Symington. It had just felt that way. Perhaps there had not been a delay between the gunshot and the sympathetic girl running from the room. It had just felt that way.
And perhaps the interval between each beat of his heart was not really a lifetime. It only felt that way.
How many of these lifetimes passed before the shrieking began, he could not say. And how long after that was it before the door to the parlour crashed open and DI Leversedge burst in, holding the once sympathetic but now terrified girl in front of him in a one-armed stranglehold, the barrel of his Weber service revolver pressing against her temple.
‘Drop it, Tiggie,’ said Leversedge quietly, his voice almost intimate. The calmness of his demeanour impressed Quinn. He felt the relief flood through him.
Benson’s expression went through a series of complex mutations as he calculated his options. It settled on a look that came as close to tender as he was capable of. A look which the ice-eyed girl on the chaise longue noted with displeasure.
For it was clear that while she was his floozy, his good-time girl, the little soft-eyed one shielding the copper from bullets was the girl he loved.
Benson’s gun clattered to the floor.
A moment later the room was filled with uniforms.