Blood on the Line irc-8 Read online

  Leeming put out his chest. ‘I like to think that we would.’

  ‘Instinct and experience will always protect you.’

  ‘They’ve done so this far, Constable.’

  ‘I’ve convinced Catherine of it. That’s why she was able to accept my decision to join the police.’ Peebles heaved a sigh. ‘I’m counting the days until we get married.’

  ‘I wish you both joy,’ said Leeming.

  He spoke with sincerity. The glimpse into Peebles’ private life had moderated Leeming’s criticism of him. He could not bring himself to like the Scotsman but he was more tolerant of him now. Moreover, the fact that Peebles was about to get married somehow put them on an even footing. Leeming no longer felt old enough to be his father.

  They were strolling side by side along a narrow thoroughfare that twisted and turned with serpentine unpredictability. Leeming kept a wary eye on everything and everybody they encountered, anticipating danger whenever they came to a dark alley or saw a gang of youths loitering on a corner. Peebles, meanwhile, was distracted by thoughts of his beloved, imagining how impressed Catherine would be when he told her about his sojourn in Manchester with Inspector Colbeck. Animated by inner excitement, he was completely off guard. When the attack came, therefore, Peebles was unprepared for it.

  Ironically, the incident occurred under a railway bridge. Four men who’d been lounging against the wall sprang to life and hurtled out of the shadows to confront them. Their leader had a cudgel and, to show his readiness to use it, knocked off Leeming’s top hat.

  ‘Hand over your money!’ he demanded. ‘Otherwise—’

  He got no further. Leeming’s well-aimed kick hit him in the crotch and made him double up in pain. With one of their attackers disabled, Leeming turned to a second, a burly man with a mane of red hair merging with a tufted red beard. The sergeant landed two heavy punches before the man fought back. Peebles had to deal with the other two men. One tried to grab him from behind so that the other could pummel away at him but the constable quickly frustrated their plan. As the attacker behind him took hold of his arms, Peebles stamped hard on the man’s toe and jerked one elbow back into his stomach. He then smashed his fist into the face of the man in front of him and made blood cascade from his nose. Following up with a series of punches to the body, he sent him reeling then turned to grapple with the man behind him.

  Leeming had already robbed his assailant of any wish to continue the fight, catching him with a relay of blows that sent him crashing back against a brick wall. When the man with the cudgel saw what was happening, he barked an order and the four of them slunk off to lick their wounds and to reflect on their folly in choosing the wrong targets. Picking up his hat, Leeming dusted it off.

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ he said with a grin. ‘It was good exercise.’

  ‘I just didn’t see them coming,’ admitted Peebles.

  ‘No matter – you acquitted yourself well. You were obviously taught how to fight in the army.’

  ‘I’ll be more careful from now on.’

  ‘I sensed there might be trouble when I saw them lurking there. Since we were outnumbered, they thought we were easy meat.’

  Peebles adjusted his coat. ‘You reacted so promptly, Sergeant.’

  ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ said Leeming. ‘It’s something that the superintendent keeps drumming into our heads.’ He looked his companion up and down. ‘Did you get hurt?’

  ‘I’ll have a few bruises, that’s all, but I fancy I inflicted far more damage on them. To be honest, I felt rather cheated that it was over so quickly.’ He looked under the bridge. ‘Is there any point in trying to pursue them?’

  ‘None at all – they know the backstreets and we don’t. They came off worse, that’s the main thing. It will make them think twice about accosting people in the future.’ He offered his hand. ‘Well done, Constable – and welcome to Manchester!’

  Grinning broadly, Peebles shook his hand. The brawl had had one positive result for him. Having fought off his attackers with vigour, he now felt accepted by Leeming. It was a step forward.

  Silas Adnam was more interested in talking about himself than about his daughter but Colbeck let him ramble on. The story was a familiar one to the detective. He’d seen any number of instances where a combination of grief and alcohol had brought about a man’s ruin. The wonder was that Adnam had not dragged his daughter down with him. Entering domestic service, Irene had soon shown her mettle and been rewarded with more responsibility. Her father was proud of the fact that she’d been promoted within her first household yet surprised that she’d not stayed there long. In fact, she seemed to change jobs quite often, eventually rising to the position of governess. Adnam spoke about her with an amalgam of smugness and concern, talking in fulsome terms about Irene’s cleverness while worrying that he was so rarely able to see her.

  Finally, Colbeck had to shatter the old man’s illusions.

  ‘Did you know that the police are searching for her?’ he asked.

  Adnam blanched. ‘Why on earth should they do that?’

  ‘Your daughter has committed a series of crimes, sir.’

  ‘That’s a damnable lie, Inspector! I brought Irene up to respect law and order. There’s not a dishonest bone in her body.’

  ‘Then I suggest that you talk to Inspector Boone. He has kept a record of her activities in Manchester and the surrounding area. She does not always use her real name, of course, but there’s no doubt that she has had a succession of victims.’

  ‘Victims?’ repeated the other. ‘How can a harmless, decent, young woman like Irene have victims? She’s a governess with a respectable family in London.’

  ‘Do you happen to have their name and address?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘That’s probably because these people do not exist.’

  ‘But they do,’ said Adnam, desperately. ‘How else would Irene have earned that money? I don’t have their address because Irene is forbidden to have any letters sent to her.’

  ‘Is that what she told you?’

  ‘Yes – otherwise I’d keep in regular touch with her.’

  ‘She’s been lying to you, Mr Adnam,’ said Colbeck, levelly.

  ‘I refuse to believe that!’

  Colbeck took a deep breath before recounting details of the escape of Jeremy Oxley. He explained the role played by a female accomplice. He also pointed out that the couple had recently taken part in a robbery in Birmingham. The money that Adnam assumed had been saved by his daughter during her time as a governess had instead been stolen. In short, since her father had received a number of similar payments over the years, he had been living unwittingly on the proceeds of crime.

  ‘Do you still claim that she works in London?’ asked Colbeck.

  Adnam was uncertain. ‘It’s what she told me.’

  ‘Did you never ask yourself some obvious questions? Why would any daughter take a train all the way to Manchester to see her father, then spend less than ten minutes with him? Why didn’t Irene let you take her to the railway station? Why has she been so secretive all these years? Why does she refuse to give you the addresses of the places at which she pretends to work?’ He stepped in close. ‘It pains me to tell you that Irene Adnam is a thief and a killer. She is working with a man whose criminal record includes violence and murder. It’s your duty to help us to find them.’

  Adnam was disconsolate. Pride in what he saw as his daughter’s achievements was the one last source of pleasure in his life. It kept him afloat in the noisome swamp where he lived. Of equal importance was the fact that Irene supplied him – albeit irregularly – with money. At a stroke, the major prop in his grim existence had been cut from under him. There would be no more cash from Irene and no more opportunities to boast about her in the Eagle and Child. In fact, he would never be able to mention her name again. Adnam had refused to believe it at first but Colbeck had been authoritative. The truth was unavoidable. Why else would a Scotland Yard dete
ctive take the trouble to come to Deansgate if he did not have irrefutable proof of Irene’s involvement in horrifying crimes? Adnam had fathered a monster. It was too much for him to bear. Bringing his hands up to his face, he let out a roar of pain then began to sob uncontrollably.

  ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ suggested Colbeck, gently. ‘I want you to tell me once again what happened when your daughter came to see you. The most insignificant detail may turn out to be useful to us. I need you to rack your brain, Mr Adnam.’

  The old man looked up. ‘She’s gone – Irene has gone for ever.’

  ‘Do you want her to stay free to kill again?’

  ‘No, no!’ cried Adnam. ‘Perish the thought.’

  ‘Then help us to catch her and the man with whom she lives.’

  Adnam sat up and used a filthy handkerchief to wipe away his tears. He was then in the grip of a fit of coughing that lasted for a couple of minutes. When he recovered, he turned to Colbeck.

  ‘I’ve lost her, Inspector,’ he said, sorrowfully.

  ‘I fear that you lost her a long time ago, sir.’

  ‘It’s like a death. I feel bereft. Irene was all that I had between me and despair.’ He stifled another sob. ‘Have you ever lost a child?’

  ‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘but I once lost someone I loved dearly. It’s the reason this case has a personal dimension for me. However long it takes, I’ll track down Jeremy Oxley and I fully expect to arrest your daughter at the same time.’

  * * *

  The cottage was in a leafy suburb of London. Built centuries earlier, it had a timber frame, small, mullioned windows, a solid oak front door, a thatched, overhanging roof and a well-tended garden at the front and the rear. Ivy covered one side of the facade while the other was ablaze with roses. There was such a sense of rural isolation that Irene could not believe they were actually in the capital city. The moment she set eyes on the house, her ambition was ignited. She wanted to live in such a quaint and captivating place, far away from the industrial centres to which she was accustomed. In addition, Irene yearned for an existence that was free from crime, the kind of quiet, uneventful life that people could expect in an area like this.

  Having been told that their host had committed murder, she faced the prospect of meeting him with slight trepidation but it soon evaporated. Gordon Younger was a plump man of middle years with a reassuring smile. His bald head gleamed, his cheeks were red and his goatee beard was his only facial hair. Susanna, his wife, was even more rotund, her clothing carefully tailored to hide some of her contours. She was a poised, educated, middle-class woman who looked as if her natural milieu would have been a country vicarage. Clearly, the Youngers were not short of money. Their cottage was expensively furnished and there were gilt-framed paintings of hunting scenes on the walls.

  Astonished to see Oxley after a long absence, they gave him and Irene an effusive welcome. Glad to offer accommodation to the visitors, neither Younger nor his wife asked why they had come to London. They simply accepted that their guests had a need and were happy to fulfil it. What struck Irene about the couple was the pleasure they seemed to take in each other’s company. There was an unforced togetherness about them that she envied. She wondered if she and Oxley would ever be able to achieve something similar. When she was shown up to the guest room by Susanna, she took the opportunity to probe a little.

  ‘How long have you been here, Mrs Younger?’ she asked.

  ‘My name is Susanna as long as you’re here,’ said the other, with a hand on her shoulder, ‘and the answer is that we’ve lived here for seven years. Gordon was able to retire early.’

  ‘What did he retire from?’

  ‘Medicine – he was a doctor.’

  ‘It must be idyllic here.’

  ‘We love it, Irene. Twenty years ago, this was a country village. It’s starting to feel more like a city suburb now but it still has a whiff of a farming community.’ She indicated the window. ‘Watch that low beam when you open the window,’ she warned. ‘There are only two things wrong with this place – low beams and spiders in the thatch.’

  ‘We can put up with those,’ said Irene with a laugh.

  She was wearing a wedding ring but she could see that Susanna was not fooled by it. Only people who’d been married could attain the kind of closeness that the Youngers had of right. Irene felt another pang of envy, hoping that Oxley had the same response. She prayed that the cottage would not simply be a refuge for them but that it would exert a good influence and make Oxley want to emulate their hosts. Irene longed for permanence.

  It was not until she and Oxley retired to bed that she was able to talk to him properly. After an excellent meal washed down by a fine wine, he was in a relaxed mood.

  ‘This is a wonderful place,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been anywhere quite like it. What about you, Jerry?’

  ‘It’s very comfortable but a little too quiet for my liking.’

  ‘Gordon and Susanna seem so at home here.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a big change from Bradford,’ said Oxley. ‘That’s where I first met them.’

  ‘Why did they leave?’

  He laughed. ‘Why did we leave Manchester?’

  Irene was curious. ‘Were they wanted by the police?’

  ‘Gordon certainly was,’ he replied, ‘but he had the sense to plan his escape long before his crimes actually came to light. They are probably still searching for him in Bradford.’

  ‘Is that where he murdered people?’

  He put a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t ever say that in his presence. He doesn’t believe that he murdered anyone. Gordon was a doctor. He took an oath to say that he’d always seek to preserve life. It’s just that he felt there were certain exceptions – people whose existence was so dire and unendurable that they begged him to help them.’

  ‘You mean that he assisted in their death?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. Gordon felt that he was performing a sacred duty. And, of course, there was a commercial aspect to it.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It was a lot to ask of a doctor, Irene. His patients understood that. After he’d sent them painlessly to their deaths, he was rewarded by the provisions of their respective wills. That’s how he came to buy this cottage,’ he went on, taking in the whole building with a sweep of his hand. ‘He and Susanna have retired on the proceeds of his work in Bradford, putting rich old ladies to sleep for the last time.’ He pulled her close. ‘Take heart from what happened to them, my love. It is possible to kill and to live happily ever after.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Caleb Andrews was home earlier than usual that evening. He found his daughter reading the latest book she’d borrowed from Colbeck. Madeleine got up to give him a welcoming kiss. After hanging his cap on the peg, he went into the kitchen to wash the grime off his hands and face. When he came back in, she was putting a bookmark in place before setting her book aside.

  ‘Who wrote that one?’ he asked.

  ‘Charles Dickens.’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a man who can make the blood race. I like his novels. When you’ve finished with it, I might take a look at it myself. What’s it called, Maddie?’

  ‘American Notes,’ she answered. ‘But it’s not a novel. It’s an account of a journey Mr Dickens made to America some years ago. It must have upset a lot of readers over there because it’s very critical of the Americans.’

  ‘So it should be,’ said Andrews with acerbity. ‘What did America ever do for this country except cause us a lot of trouble? I don’t like Americans.’

  ‘How can you say that, Father? You’ve never even met one.’

  ‘I don’t need to meet one.’

  ‘It’s unfair to make judgements about people like that.’

  ‘Britain is best, Maddie, that’s what I always say. I hate France, Germany, Russia and – most of all – America.’

  ‘Yet you’ve never been to any of those countries.’

 
‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag me there.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘I spoke to Mr Pomeroy again today. He’s given me an exact date. My retirement is only a matter of weeks away.’

  She needed a moment for the full impact of the announcement to sink in. After all these years, it seemed unreal that her father was finally quitting a job that he loved so much. From the time when she was a small child, Madeleine remembered the way that he set off each morning with a spring in his step. Though he moaned about the long hours, inadequate pay and bad weather he had to endure, Andrews had never considered finding alternative work. Wholly committed to the railways, he was proud to serve them.

  ‘Well,’ he said, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch, ‘now that I’ve set a date, it’s time that you and the inspector did the same.’

  ‘Robert has promised to discuss it as soon as this case is over.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when it happens.’

  Madeleine was hurt. ‘He always keeps his promises.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t he taken you up the aisle before now? Each time he looks as if he’s about to do so, there’s a delay.’ He filled the pipe with tobacco. ‘Perhaps it’s time for me to speak to him, man to man?’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she warned.

  ‘I’m only thinking of you, Maddy.’

  ‘We just have to wait until Robert is ready.’

  ‘That means you’ll have to wait for ever,’ he grumbled. ‘Look how long you had to twiddle your thumbs while you waited for a proposal of marriage. It was years and years.’

  ‘We had an understanding, Father.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time that Inspector Colbeck and I had a sort of understanding. I’m fed up with seeing my daughter moping around the house all day while the man she’s supposed to marry keeps feeding her one excuse after another.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ she argued, ‘and I certainly don’t mope.’

  ‘I’ll want privacy when I retire, Maddy, and there’s something else I’m looking forward to as well.’

  ‘What’s that?’