CHAPTER TEN

“So, are we any better off?” Deuchars faced Mendick across the desk while Sturrock listened, puffing at his churchwarden pipe.

Mendick shrugged. “Not much. All we know is that Torrie was a recruit and the woman in the green cloak wanted to start fires. We don’t know why yet, but we can assume she works for China Jim.”

“Maybe China Jim was just causing trouble for trouble’s sake?” Sturrock blew thick blue smoke across the room. “I can’t think of any other reason.”

“I think we can assume China Jim had a reason, we just don’t know what, yet.” Mendick said.

“Oh, he had a reason all right.” Superintendent Mackay arrived with his usual silent grace. “When three quarters of the police force and all the fire engines were busy around the High Street, the Scouringburn Distillery was burned down.”

“We saw the flames, sir,” Mendick remembered.

“We suspect it was deliberate fire-raising,” Mackay said. “I want you to go with James Fyffe, the superintendent of the Fire Brigade, and see what you can find out.”

“Yes, sir,” Mendick reached for his coat.

“And when you return, Sergeant,” Mackay’s voice was like cut glass, “come and see me in my office.”

“Nobody hurt, Sergeant Mendick,” Mr Fyffe lifted his tall hat and scratched the top of his bald head. Smuts of soot settled on his bushy eyebrows. He surveyed the damage to the distillery, “But it’s made a fine mess of the building. The place went up like a bomb, we were lucky the burning spirits did not spread to the houses nearby.”

Mendick looked at the Scouringburn. Blue smoke sat trapped by low housing, tenements and high-walled mill buildings. The streets were narrow, dark and noisy with tall chimneys adding to the smog. Newly idle distillery workers gathered in disconsolate groups, muttering about unpaid bills and hungry children. Mendick glanced at the nearest chimney and shivered.

He looked upward to where the flue ascended forever, the sides black and slippery with soot and the exit a tiny circle of light diminished by distance.

“Move you bugger! Or it will be the worse for you.”

That voice still haunted his nightmares. He forced himself back to the present. Even in the street outside Mendick could hear the unending clatter of the mill’s machinery, the noise seeming to repeat one phrase ‘more profit, more profit, more profit.’ This was an area of densely packed buildings with small factories and workshops wedged between tenements and low houses, there were scores of children gathered everywhere and a number of pubs that sold kill-me-deadly whisky and watered beer. If the fire had spread in this neighbourhood, there could have been many hurt or killed. Water flowed slowly down the cobbled street, carrying all the debris of a gutted building amidst the smuts of soot. Mr Fyffe moved to speak to the manager of the distillery, a man made round-shouldered by the sudden uncertainty of his future.

“Do you know what caused it?” Mendick asked the nearest fireman. The man shrugged and continued to coil up his canvas hose and load it into the wagon. The matched brown horses flicked their ears as smuts of soot irritated them.

“Our job is to put out fires, Sergeant, not to find out how they started.”

The fireman slammed shut the hinged compartment that held the hoses, checked the water pump was secure and clambered onto the engine. “That’s it out now, so I’ll leave you to it.” Raising his hand in farewell, he cracked his whip and the horses jerked the machine away. The crowd switched its attention to Mendick who ignored them as he peered through the charred doorway to the still-smoking remains of the building.

He stepped inside the mill, coughing as warm ashes and smoke engulfed him. The interior was more cramped than he had expected; two storeys high with little space between the copper stills and the mash tubs that stood on a slabbed stone floor. The ground was a mess of sodden ash, with pieces of charred paper seemingly everywhere. Light filtered in from the open door.

“You’d better be careful, Sergeant,” Fyffe said, “This is no place to walk around.”

Mendick nodded. “Aye, you’re not wrong there, Mr Fyffe. Are fires like this common?” He stood in the centre of the floor, surveying the devastation.

“That was one too many,” the distillery manager said. “There will be no whisky distilled here again.” He shook his head. “That’s the second fire this month. The engines put out the first one before it caused too much damage, but not this time.”

Mendick stirred the ash with his cane. “Is there some weakness in the building perhaps, that makes this distillery more vulnerable to fire?”

“We have had a spate of fires in Dundee lately,” Mr Fyffe said. “There have been three pubs burned out in the last month. I think it more likely to be carelessness than anything else, though.” Fyffe spoke with a broad Dundee accent, a man who had educated himself. “There are many reasons for a fire starting where there is raw spirits.” He sighed. “It could be something as innocent as a man dropping a match when he’s having a sly smoke, or a spilled lantern of oil, or something similar. I doubt we will ever know. We can only thank the Lord that He did not see fit to take any lives.”

Mendick only grunted. “I have my suspicions, sir, that this fire may not have been quite as accidental as you think.”

Mr Fyffe waved a hand at the remains of the distillery. “Well, Mr Mendick,we shall never know what started this mess, but who this side of Bedlam would want to start a fire in a distillery?”

Mendick recalled the mutilated remains of the three murdered men. He tapped his cane against the nearest copper still. “I am not at all certain that the man I have in mind is on the right side of Bedlam, sir. Indeed, I am certain he would be better off locked inside there forever, if a gentle judge spared him the noose.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I shall leave you now, sir. Thank you for your help.”

Mackay’s office was the largest and plushest in the building, but was still permeated by the austere atmosphere of the police office. Mackay sat back in his leather armchair and pressed together the lean fingers of his hands. “So far you have not been as successful as the reputation of Scotland Yard would have us believe, Mendick. There have been three murders since you arrived, one serious riot and at least one possible case of major fire-raising.”

“Yes, sir,” Mendick wondered if Mackay blamed him personally for the outbreak of mayhem in his town.

Mackay leaned forward in his chair. “Catch China Jim, Mendick, and catch him while there are still some people left alive in Dundee.” His Caithness accent became more pronounced as he held Mendick’s gaze. “Do I make myself understood?”

“You do sir,” Mendick agreed.

“I want to see you back in here in fifteen minutes, Mendick, with a full record of what you have achieved.”

“Yes, sir, a full record.” Mendick’s salute was not entirely ironic as he left the office.

“Wee Donnie seems a trifle upset,” Deuchars had obviously been listening at the door. He did not appear concerned as he stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a huge thumb. “I think we had better catch this blackguard, Sergeant.”

“So we continue as before,” Mendick felt a wave of weariness wash over him. Thus far his investigations had got him nowhere, he had only reacted to China Jim’s crimes and had not succeeded in preventing a single one. He walked across to his own office, stood in the doorway and put an edge to his voice. “I want the boys reminded about that carriage. I want every brougham stopped and searched, and the driver and occupants questioned and noted.”

Sturrock looked up from his notebook and frowned. “There could be a score of broughams in Dundee; you might alarm a completely innocent man . . .”

“What is more important, Sturrock,” Mendick lowered his voice, “alarming an innocent man and perhaps catching a murderer, or being concerned about such things and having that innocent man murdered?” He lifted his hat and cane from the coatstand. “Sometimes it is necessary for a police officer to be less than pleasant to get the job done.”

Sturrock nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“And now, I am looking for a coach.” Mendick jammed the hat on his head.

Deuchars looked up, “Yes, Sergeant, but what about the Superintendent? He expects a full report from you.”

“The Superintendent can go and bless himself.” Mendick marched out of the room.

Freshly painted in green and gold, the sign hung proud on the outside of the Nethergate office and workshop:

Walter McLauchlan, it proclaimed, Dundee’s Premier Coachworks: Makers of Carriages, Two and Four Wheeled Dog Carts and Gigs.

Mendick tapped his cane against the wide door and stepped inside. He entered a cobbled courtyard with a litter of timber and wheels, busily sawing and hammering workmen, a watchful collie dog and the inevitable cat that sat on a pile of wood shavings, overseeing everything. In the corner, two men were busy painting a completed coach.

“I wish to see Walter McLauchlan.”

“That would be me.” McLauchlan was of middle height, with neat whiskers that matched his grey eyes. His handshake was firm.

Mendick showed his official staff and came straight to the point. “My name is Sergeant James Mendick and I am seeking information about a brougham.”

McLauchlan narrowed his eyes. “Do you want me to build you one? They don’t come cheap.” He gave a slight smile.

“Not on my wages.” Mendick noticed the collie come closer but it appeared friendly enough to be ignored.

“Nor on what this yard brings in,” McLauchlan said sadly. “Come into the office, Sergeant.” He led the way through the yard, stopping twice to give advice to young apprentices. “You’ll be asking about that China Jim fellow, I suppose?”

McLauchlan’s office was nothing more than a wooden shed with a plank desk and two chairs, but there was a small stove on which sat a battered kettle, and his tea was strong and sweet and welcoming. “Right, Sergeant, tell me what I can do for you.”

Mendick removed his hat and lowered himself into a chair. “We think that China Jim uses a brougham to travel about Dundee.”

“Aye, I can believe that.” McLauchlan nodded slowly. “I’d pick a one-horse fly myself but I can see the advantage of a brougham. It has a tight turning circle, you see.”

“That would be useful in Dundee’s narrow streets,” Mendick agreed. “Do you have a list of your customers?”

“We don’t need a list for broughams,” McLauchlan said. “We’ve sold two, one to Mr Gordon of Mandarin House and one to Mr Gilbride of the Waverley Company.”

“Gordon and Gilbride?” Mendick smiled. Both were suspects so this piece of information did not help him in the slightest. “Are you the only coach manufacturer in Dundee?”

McLauchlan waved his mug. “I am, but there are plenty in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Anyway, maybe your China Jim fellow bought a coach privately and did not have it made for him.”

“That is always possible,” Mendick said. “What colour were your coaches?” Mendick asked. “The one we are looking for is dark blue or black.”

McLauchlan opened the door and gestured with his cup to the coach the men were painting. “There’s one there, dark blue. All of ours are dark blue because it’s the most popular colour this season.”

Mendick nodded. He recognised the brougham with its elevated driver’s seat. “Thank you.” Replacing his hat, Mendick flicked the brim with his finger. “You have been of some assistance. And the tea was most welcome.”

Now he was back to Gordon and Gilbride. Gordon, the one-time opium trader who had lied to him about the night of the second murder and Gilbride, with the sore leg that made it impossible for him to slide down ropes, and the strong Walter Scott connection. The trail just led in small, pointless circles.

“They’re like smoke,” Deuchars grumbled. “China Jim, the seaman with a hundred names and that woman in the green cloak all just vanish when they please.”

“They’re not like smoke,” Sturrock said. “Maybe that old beggar was right. They are like ghosts. They’re spirits, that’s what they are.”

“They’re solid bone and flesh,” Mendick hardened his voice. “They are here, hiding amongst us and I want them. Check every stable for that coach, and that includes private as well as public. Note every brougham. Note everything.” Yet despite himself he remembered the uncanny way China Jim had manipulated the police and vanished. His identity was unknown even to the criminal classes. They only knew how to fear him, as he had feared his master as a child.

His world was restricted to the circumference of a flue, the exhausted slumber of end-of-work and the cringing acceptance of his master’s belt.

“Faster you wee bastard! There are two more to go after this one.”

The memory brought goose pimples to his spine and for a terrible moment the ranting face of his old Master merged with his mental image of China Jim. Mendick shook away the thought and concentrated on reality, but the fear remained to gnaw at his consciousness.

Blue broughams joined China Jim in Mendick’s mind as he spent the next few days walking Dundee’s streets, following coaches and checking stables. He listed every brougham he found, lost some in frustrated chases and compared his list with that of Sturrock. It was a Wednesday evening when he called his small team and they sat around his battered desk, sipping at vast mugs of tea as they reviewed their progress.

“There should be a registration system for carriages,” Deuchars grumbled as they copied out their piecemeal notes, “so we can just look it up when we need it. They do it for ships, so why not coaches?”

“It would make things easier for us,” Sturrock agreed, “but the people would never stand for it. Maybe the continentals would do something of the sort, but we value our freedom higher than that.”

“So what do we have so far?” Deuchars asked. “Six broughams. I had no idea there were so many in Dundee. You know about Gordon’s and Gilbride’s, of course?”

“Both men I would not trust the width of the street,” Mendick said. “And the others?”

“That leaves four: the merchants Josiah Scrymgeour and Walter Rennie, one that’s lacking wheels and one owned by Farquhar Jamieson, the ship master.” Deuchars finished.

“A ship master? How can a ship’s master afford a private carriage? This bears some investigation. Has he ever been to China?”

“I have no idea,” Sturrock said. “I know Jamieson though, he’s master of Bride of Lammermoor and he’s been at sea since December. He’s somewhere between here and Quebec.”

“Damn and blast!” Mendick banged his palm on the desk top. “Every possible lead goes nowhere!” He walked to the window, stood with his back to it, pushed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and applied a Lucifer. He enjoyed this first pipe of the evening best, when the day’s work was behind him and the ease of the night was ahead. “We have spread the word we’re searching for China Jim. We have a permanent watch on Mandarin House and Gilbride’s office in Whale Lane. We have men noting every dark brougham they see and who the owners are. But what have we discovered?”

Sturrock sat back in his chair, his legs stretched before him and his churchwarden pipe emitting blue smoke. “We’re making progress, Sergeant. These things take time.”

Mendick glanced outside for a moment, noting the forest of chimneys that punctured the dimming sky. God, but he hated this place.

“We have two main suspects,” Mendick said, “the first being James Gordon the Chinese opium trader. He’s top of our list, but what could have been the motive for murdering these three men, and in such a barbarous manner?”

“Perhaps they were rivals?” Sturrock hazarded.

“Gordon is a wealthy property owner, Milne was a night watchmen, Thoms a pawnshop proprietor and Torrie a recruit and an ex-seaman.” Mendick shook his head. “They were not business rivals. They could hardly have been love rivals either. Gordon has a beautiful wife and would not associate with the type of woman that Thoms or Torrie would know.” He shrugged. “Second is George Gilbride of the Waverley Whale Fishing Company.”

Sturrock removed the pipe from his mouth. “Gilbride is one of the most respectable gentlemen in Dundee.”

“There are three things that give rise to suspicion about him,” Mendick said. “One: he has a bad limp and claims it was a riding accident. Men with bad legs cannot climb down a rope, they would need a ladder−”

“Might as well arrest half the cripples in Dundee then.” Sturrock broke in, but Mendick stopped him with a lift of his hand.

“Two: he is a whaling ship owner and Milne was found in a whale boiling yard.”

“He worked there−” Sturrock said.

“Three: our invisible seaman of the many aliases always chooses a character from Scott’s novels as a false name, and Scott is Gilbride’s favourite author.”

“So, after three murders we have two people who may possibly have been involved,” Sturrock said. “I have always thought Gordon an arrogant sort of fellow ever since he arrived in Dundee, but a murderer?” He shook his head. “No. I can’t see it. Why? He’s already as rich as Croesus. Why should he want to butcher people? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You are correct,” Mendick agreed. “This case is all about reason: what was the reason for murdering these men, and what was the connection between them? There must be one. The method was the same, and we have the coins with the date 1842.”

“So we are looking for a connection between a seaman turned soldier, an ex-seaman who owned a shop and a night watchman?” Sturrock shrugged. “I cannot think of any, except for the fact two had been at sea, but so have half the men in Dundee.”

Mendick frowned. “Including me,” he said. “You said ‘ever since he arrived in Dundee,’ when would that be?”

Sturrock exhaled smoke. “Let’s see. It was at least four, maybe five years ago. Yes, about five years, say 1844.”

“Two years after the date on the coins, then.” Mendick began to pace the room. “Have we any news of Marmion or Oldbuck, Sturrock? A description, perhaps?”

Sturrock shook his head. “No, Sergeant. The man who arrested him has left the force and nobody else knows him at all. He was just an itinerant sailor.”

Mendick grunted. “Itinerant sailors do not suddenly turn into housebreakers. They may be drunken rioters or steal a bottle of whisky from a toll house, but going to all the trouble of manufacturing a complex rope ladder?” He turned to look out of the window, “There is more to our sailor man than meets the eye; a thief, yes, but . . .”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Sturrock pressed more tobacco into his pipe “but do you know what he was caught stealing?”

“Not until you tell me,” Mendick said.

“I only found out this afternoon,” Sturrock opened his notebook. “He was caught leaving the office premises of the Waverley Company with documents – wage sheets, crew lists, articles – no money or valuables.”

Mendick shook his head. “Who in the devil’s name would risk their freedom to steal rubbish like that? This whole case makes no sense at all. Nothing adds up.” He reached for his hat. “I think I will have a little walk to see our beggar friend. He knows more than he says. I want you to trace the history of the murdered men. See where they were in 1842.”

Darkness was falling when Mendick lifted his Chesterfield and pulled it on. As usual the pepperpot was clumsy in his inside pocket but he felt safer carrying it. He passed the stone columns that marked the door of the police office, placed his battered hat on his head and strode towards the docks. Already the atmosphere of the town was changing as the honest bustle of the day dimmed into the hidden scurry of the night. Around him the flicker of gas lanterns illuminated the main thoroughfares, with the unseen masses huddled in concealing darkness. Somewhere in those shrouded wynds and lanes there lurked a monster and his policeman’s instinct told him that there were depths he had not yet plunged. As he paced towards Dock Street he looked around, mentally reviewing his pitifully thin list of suspects.

Well, China Jim, I’m after you now, and if you’re in Dundee then I will find you, no matter in which noxious close or salubrious suburb you hide.

He jammed his hat further down his head, gripped his cane, lengthened his stride and strode along, his footsteps ringing on the paving stones of the High Street. He watched a brougham as it whirred in front of him and noted the driver who stared at him over a lean shoulder. The face was not familiar, it could have belonged to anybody; an anonymous man in a bustling city, but it was a brougham and he must check.

“Hey!” Mendick raised his cane, “Dundee Police! Stop!”

The brougham neither slowed down nor increased its speed. It continued along the street with the gas lights reflecting from the glossy paintwork of the body and the blurred yellow spokes of the wheels. Mendick shouted again and watched in frustration. He gave an ironic smile and muttered “There is never a policeman when you need one.”

He strode downhill through the dark streets. After spending hours on administrative work and attempting to piece together evidence that seemed to have no relevance to anything, he needed some exercise and it was always useful to see the town at night; he might catch a drift of conversation even before he reached Hitchins.

He passed a trio of spinners returning blank-faced and exhausted from the mill, and glowered at a striding sweep with two climbing boys trailing at his side. As always, he examined the Master sweep, wondering how he treated the youngsters, but moved on, heart-sick, as he fought the memories. The lights of small shops flickered as shopkeepers tried desperately to drum up custom from people who had barely enough to keep from starving. There was a group of young would-be pickpockets hanging around, hopeful for a victim. With luck they would find nobody tonight for he was not in the mood to chase children, or to see their tousled heads barely above the bar in the court.

The sudden prickle at the base of Mendick’s skull alerted him. It was more than instinct; a combination of knowledge and experience that warned him something was wrong. He stopped at the corner of Reform Street and the High Street, thrust his cane under his arm and struck a Lucifer. As he pretended to light his pipe he looked around as nonchalantly as possible, disregarding the group of promenading females and the battered butcher’s dog cart. He heard a commotion − the raised voice of an indignant man, the shrill denial of a woman, the patter of scurrying steps on the paving, but with so many people milling around he could not see who was involved.

“Stop, thief! Police!” The words were familiar, he had heard them a thousand times in his life, and if the Dundee accent was different to that of London, the meaning was just as clear. “Stop that woman!”

There she was – a lone female with a wide skirt and a voluminous dark green cloak – trying to find anonymity amongst a gaggle of strollers. The woman looked at him and recognition was instant and mutual. He did not know her name but she was the woman who had been dogging him for the past few days.

“Here, you!”

Mendick stepped forward and the woman lifted her skirt to mid-calf and ran. He followed, crossed the High Street with its buzzing traffic, dodged a cursing carter and looked around. The woman hesitated for a second beside the pillars of the Town House, glanced at him and disappeared down a narrow close that ran southward towards Dock Street.

If he had still been a beat officer he would have sprung his rattle to summon assistance, but a criminal officer carried no such device. He knew he should not get involved, he should wait for help, but by the time he did so the woman would have vanished into the labyrinth of closes and medieval alleyways that criss-crossed Dundee behind the main streets. He had to follow, it was his duty.

“Stop that woman!” He rattled his cane against the wall and thrust into the darkness, breathing the familiar stench of poverty and decay.

The victim had followed, an undistinguished man half-seen in the gloom. “Catch her, she’s a thief!” Mendick ignored him. He did not need any support.

Voices murmured all around and shadowed forms shifted in the dark. The quick, rough Dundee accents mingled with the longer vowels of Ireland to create an echoing cacophony between stone walls that wept foul water. Mendick stopped and listened for the click of footsteps. If the woman was clever she would ease into one of the side doors and remain still, invisible in the dark, but no, she was still running, the sound of her boots fast and sharp in the whispering dim.

Mendick followed, ignoring the comments from either side, the furtive attempts to trip him as he passed, the bottle dropped from above that crashed to the ground a second after he passed; such things were as normal in the London rookeries as in the unsavoury closes of Dundee. “Police! Stop right there!”

As expected, his words only spurred the woman on. The click of her heels increased in volume and he was able to follow her with more ease into the stygian dark. The close merged into a junction with another, in a combination of poverty and run-down houses, but rather than jink back to lose herself in the crowds the woman ran straight down the steep slope and out into Fish Street.

Mendick stopped to get his bearings. Although broader than the close, Fish Street was still a dark thoroughfare running almost parallel to the High Street, but nearer to the docks. The buildings stretched four storeys towards the sodden sky; crumbling tenements and town houses that had once belonged to the elite of Dundee but which were now abandoned to the lowest classes. In ones and twos and family groups, the wealthy families had fled the factory smoke of central Dundee and migrated to the cleaner air of West Ferry or the Perth Road.

Down here, ragged people grouped in front of doorways, preferring the relatively fresh air of the squalid street to the foetid stench and overcrowding of the much-divided interiors of the houses. Eyes watched him pass, some shorn of hope, others bereft of interest, a few predatory, and one or two people shouted obscene insults but Mendick did not stop. The woman hesitated at the door of the Ship Tavern, wailed, lifted her skirt even higher and clattered past and down the street.

“Here! Get back to your own bit!” A couple of gaunt youths, toes protruding from broken boots and knees from frayed trousers tried to block his path. He pushed them aside.

“Go and find a job,” he advised roughly, knowing full well that such luxuries were scarce when trade was depressed and mills idle.

The woman had stopped halfway down the street, a vague dark figure leaning against an abandoned cart. She glanced back, caught sight of him, swore and dived through the door of the nearest building.

“Police!” Mendick ran down the sloping street. He mounted the two steps leading to the slightly inset front door, pushed it and grunted in surprise when it opened without a sound. There was the usual underlying stench of damp and decay, mingled with a more acidic, sharper smell that he did not immediately recognise. He heard the staccato click of hurrying feet and then thick silence. He stepped inside.

The darkness was pitiless. Outside there had been the tang of sooty smoke and the scent of the sea, the grind of wheels on cobblestones, harsh voices and the raucous scream of seagulls. Here, silence closed like a clamp and the dark blocked all his senses. The woman had vanished as completely as if she had never been. Mendick raised his voice, “Police!”

Emptiness swallowed the word. Cautious, feeling his way, he stepped forward, wishing he had the lantern that all beat constables carried. He knew he should call a halt now and return with reinforcements, but he also knew he could not retract as long as there was a chance of success. He had set himself the task of catching this woman in the green cloak, and that is what he would try to do.

As his eyes became accustomed to the light he saw a flight of stone steps spiralling downward. He checked his inside pocket, felt the reassuring bulk of the pepperpot revolver, held his cane ready and descended, step by step until he came to another wooden door. Again it opened when he pushed and he walked in to the room beyond.

A sudden flare of lights blinded him. “What the . . .?” He put his left hand over his eyes as he held the cane in front of him ready to repel any attack.

“Are you Sergeant Mendick of Scotland Yard?”

The voice was disembodied, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Mendick heard footsteps behind him, turned in time to see the vague shape of a man and then the door through which he had entered slammed shut. He heard the grate and draw of a bolt and looked around, blinking in the harsh light that held him like a rat in a trap. The simile was quite apt, he realised, for he was in a stone cellar with a vaulted stone ceiling. Intense darkness crowded beyond the pool of light, filled with the terrors of his infant self.

“Who are you?” Mendick peered upwards into the dark as his voice echoed around the chamber.

“Are you Sergeant James Mendick, of Scotland Yard?” The question was repeated.

“I am Mendick, who are you?” Mendick looked around the chamber but the lamps above his head blinded him, he could not even see a shadow. “Show yourself!”

“Here I am, James.” A different voice mocked him and a woman slid into the periphery of the light. She stood still, hugging her green cloak close. “Oh, James! Don’t you want me any more? And I thought you liked me, too. After all, you followed me here.”

She laughed again – without humour – her voice harsh as she stood at the edge of his vision, her pinched, slum-reared face lined with poverty, soured with hardship, scarred with her loathing of the world. “Aren’t you going to arrest me? Look! I’ll show you everything.” Tossing back her cloak, she reached to the front of her skirt, unfastened a hidden hook and allowed the material to fold back. The entire skirt opened and a rent in her threadbare petticoat allowed a glimpse of the white flesh of her thigh.

Mendick grunted. “You are a common thief.”

From the pocket down, the skirt was lined with fine canvas, so creating a large space that now held a variety of small articles, from a pair of shoes to a selection of cheap ribbons. The combination of cloak and wide skirt acted as a perfect disguise for this cache of treasure.

“I may be a common thief, Sergeant Mendick, but I am running free as a bird, while you . . .” She pushed forward her right leg so her skirt fell back, and hauled up her petticoat. “You will be dead in twenty minutes, James, and so disfigured that even your own mother won’t recognise you.”

“You vile harpie!” Mendick stepped forward but the woman slid away into the dark. There was the ominous thud of a door closing and then silence. Mendick thought of the mutilated remains of Thoms, Milne and Torrie, all found within half a mile from where he stood. He gripped his cane and felt for the butt of his revolver. He had no intention of dying down here, in some dark Dundee cellar.

“Come on then, you blackguards!” He shouted.

There was a curious grating, the sound more sinister in the dark, and a deep baying that raised the small hairs on the back of his neck. “Sweet Jesus!” A dog! Mendick felt his pulse quicken: these people were going to set a dog on him and he was trapped with nowhere to run. There were more sounds, the ominous pad of multiple sets of paws and Mendick knew there was more than one dog in this cellar with him.

He had a choice: remain in the light where he could see whatever attacked him, and be seen, or retreat against a wall. If he remained where he was a dog could get behind him, best withdraw to the wall.

“Who’s first?” If he was going to die, he would die game and neither China Jim nor anybody else would hear him cry uncle.

“Come on you slavering bastards! Come on!”

He transferred the cane to his left hand and rapped it on the floor, simultaneously hauling his pepperpot from his inside pocket. It was bulky and clumsy, but in a situation such as this he was glad of the five barrels. He had learned in the army that an enemy would often wait until the act of reloading before attacking and he had no desire to be caught out.

Mendick waited for the sound of the animals. He heard the padding of their feet, one to the right, another to the left, and a third directly ahead. He swore. Three of them; if they all came at him he would have little chance. This was not how he wanted to die, mauled by dogs in a Dundee cellar. He kept his attention on the dogs. They were circling the chamber, occasionally passing through the pool of light, heavy and ugly and panting.

“Are you China Jim? Am I speaking to China Jim?”

“You are speaking to the last man you will hear before you die. You made a mistake in coming into my territory, Sergeant Mendick.”

“If you kill a policeman they will hunt you forever.” Mendick shouted. He could hear the dogs patrolling outside the circle of light. Their paws were heavy on the stone floor and their breathing was harsh.

The first of the dogs burst into the pool of light and headed straight towards him with its head down and mouth agape. It was a bullmastiff, a massive man-killer that could rip him to bloodied shreds. Raising the pistol he shot it clear through the skull. The report was loud in the cellar and gunsmoke erupted in a choking cloud. The dog continued its run; he stepped aside and it slammed against the wall, bleeding and kicking but still alive.

Mendick watched in sick horror as the remaining two dogs leaped on it, jaws working and for a minute there was a stramash of clashing jaws and terrible squeals. Mendick backed away, lifted his cane and peered around the chamber; if these dogs had got in, there must be a way out.

“That’s one dog less, China! I hope you have a supply in reserve!”

The squeals faded to a long drawn whimper then died altogether. There were a few moments of growling and sounds of tearing flesh and then that ominous padding again.

“Mendick’s got a gun! He’s gone and shot one of the dogs!” That was the woman’s voice, harsh and ugly, as she was herself.

“Douse the light!” That was a man’s voice. “Don’t let him see them!”

“No!” The woman replied. “He’s fired his shot. They will be on him before he reloads and I want to watch.”

Mendick thought of the three mutilated bodies and wondered if this woman had watched them die as well. He shook his mind clear and waited for the sound of the animals. He heard the padding of their feet, one to the right, the other to his left. If they attacked simulataneously he would have to fend off one with his cane while he shot the other.

“Die slowly, Sergeant.” The female sounded less confident now. The grating noise sounded again and Mendick was left with the dogs.

They prowled around, sniffing, aroused to savagery by the scent of blood. Mendick kept his back to the wall and moved sideways around the perimeter of the chamber. He stepped quietly, trying to make no noise, thankful the raw stench of dead dog would mask his own scent. The floor was stone slabs: cold, smooth and occasionally uneven. He stumbled and froze. Only the harsh breathing of the dogs broke the silence, and the rapid, sinister patter of their paws.

The first came from his left, a bounding, snarling mountain of muscle and aggression and teeth that leaped through the darkness. More by instinct than intent, Mendick lifted his cane to meet it, just as the second dog came from the front. He fired again and the muzzle flash presented him with a tiny vignette of his position; he saw the dog in mid-leap, mouth wide and double rows of teeth gleaming, spittle drooling from its mouth, twin eyes pale and staring, then came the intense blackness of the after-flash. He heard the high-pitched yowl as the bullet connected, and the scuffled thump as the impact slammed it against the wall. But before Mendick could turn the final dog was on him.

He lifted his cane, aimed for the gaping mouth and thrust as hard as he could. The dog moved, the cane bounced off bone and scraped along the fur of its muzzle. Mendick continued the push and the tip entered the dog’s eye. The animal howled, Mendick pushed harder, thrusting the narrow, lead-weighted end as far as he could and the dog broke away, yowling. Mendick pushed the muzzle of the pistol close to the dog’s neck and squeezed the trigger; the barrels rotated, the hammer rose and fell – nothing. The pistol had misfired. He tried again – nothing. The dog opened its mouth wider and emitted a snarl just as Mendick tried his final barrel. This time the pistol fired. The report was deafening and the dog staggered backward, howling and still alive. It faced him, the cane a hideous unicorn horn through its eye, and he jumped forward, grabbed the cane and pushed, working the lead-weighted end through the back of the eye socket and into the brain until the dog lay at his feet and he was gasping in reaction and the aftermath of fear.

“He’s killed the dogs!”

The woman sounded furious. She added a bevy of foul language.

“Shut him in and let him rot!”

The light was doused.

Mendick swore. The darkness was oppressive, crushing him in its intensity. He backed against the wall, found the handful of cartridges in his pocket and fumbled to reload. The pepperpot was not the easiest of pistols to load, even in daylight, but in the dark and with hands still shaking, Mendick took a good three minutes. By the time he was finished his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could see his surroundings.

The chamber was rectangular with two heavy doors. It only took a moment for Mendick to realise both were locked, and a couple of trial pushes to ascertain there were bolts at the top and bottom; he could not get out that way. He felt around the wall, searching. If the dogs had got in, then there must be another way out.

He stumbled into something and cursed softly. It was a barrel, waist high and heavy. This gloomy chamber had probably been a wine cellar so presumably this was full of wine. He moved on slowly, cautious in case the woman released more dogs.

The stones were rough under his fingertips. He probed, searching for the gap he knew must be there, somewhere. He almost shouted in triumph when his hand slid into nothingness. The hole was set two feet above the ground and was just large enough for a dog but there was no alternative. Replacing his revolver in its holster, Mendick wriggled into the opening. He had no idea how long the shaft might be or if there were any bends, but, he reasoned, if a large mastiff could negotiate it, then so could he.

The shaft was of smooth stone and had possibly been created for rolling kegs or barrels to the basement. Mendick inched upward, using his elbows and knees for leverage as he fought the steep incline. Twice he cursed as he heard the stonework scrape against the watch in his fob pocket: he valued that above all his few possessions.

The air stank of foetid dog. He gagged and ignored the stone that tore his clothes and scraped the skin from his elbows and knees. After a few moments the incline increased and he was slithering up a steep slope. He looked ahead but saw only darkness. For a moment he was a child again, climbing a flue for his master, but he shook away the memory and moved on, feeling for invisible handholds in the dark.

The passage ended abruptly. Solid darkness engulfed him and he could not tell where the stone ended and the foul air began. Mendick probed with his free hand, feeling wood rather than stone blocking his path. This must be the door. He pushed without effect, ran his hands around the edge, unable to find either hinge or handle. For a second he felt frustration and fear building inside him. He was trapped, unable to escape and unwilling to return to that dungeon with its dead dogs, there to wait until China Jim saw fit to release him.

He forced himself to think rationally. The dogs had come this way, so the door must open; if it had been intended for rolling down barrels there would be a simple catch. No! It was not a catch. He remembered the grating sound that had perplexed him. Rather than a hinged door, it was a square piece of wood set within two vertical slides.

Mendick braced himself against the sides of the chute, pressed against the door and exerted upward pressure. The door moved, very slightly. He kept pushing, wincing at the noise he made. He was so close to the door it screamed rather than grated, a noise that set his teeth on edge. He stopped, put one hand on the butt of his revolver and waited. Nobody came. He continued, pushing the door up, inch by noisy, painful inch. The darkness beyond the door was intense, the silence forbidding. Finally he was able to haul out his pepperpot and wriggle through to fresher air.

He landed on a wooden floor and lay still for a second, listening. There was no sound, he was alone in a dim room. He stood up, stumbled slightly and moved towards a thin vertical bar of light that shimmered from somewhere to his left. As he had hoped, the light came from the slight gap between two ill-fitting shutters. He fumbled for the catch and hauled them open. The bustle of the night-time street was welcome − the high chatter of women, a drunken laugh, the rumble of wheels on cobbles as a cart lurched past. Mendick checked his watch. It had been less than an hour since he followed the woman in the green cloak into this house, although it seemed far longer.

He looked out through the tiny windowpanes and saw rain cascading onto Fish Street, only one storey below. He had escaped the dogs and the cellar; he had light and he was free. China Jim had thrown his dice and lost, now it was his turn. China Jim had made a big mistake in revealing his address.

Mendick grinned. He would get a few hours sleep, borrow some uniformed policemen and turn this house upside down. Somewhere in this building would be a clue to China Jim’s identity, and now the attempted murder of a policeman was added to his list of crimes.

The blackjack crashed off his skull so suddenly he had no chance to look round.