04 - Carnival of Criminals (8 page)

Tommy considered this.

“The train is my only lead. If he boarded it I know he
was probably headed for London and I have a clue as to the next place he went.
If not I don’t know a thing.”

“Try the Liverpool police, someone was keeping records on
these men. If you find some people who knew your missing man they might be able
to offer you clues.”

“Maybe they would know why he vanished too. Thanks
Clara.”

“No problem.” Clara smiled, “Just don’t start usurping me
as a private detective.”

“Would I do that?”

“Once you have the use of your legs back there’ll be no
stopping you, I’ll have competition.”

Tommy made a snorting noise.

“I don’t think you need worry about that.”

“You are too negative Tommy, anything can happen.”

“I think you and that Dr Cutt have more hope than sense.”
Tommy rolled his eyes.

His sister just gave him a sad smile, and he turned his
head away. They both knew Tommy’s hope had been squashed down into a tiny,
tight little ball in the pit of his stomach, from where it rarely emerged.

“I’ll just have to hope for both of us.” Clara said
softly.

Tommy didn’t dare meet her eyes.

“You do that.”

Clara was not expecting to meet Oliver Bankes in the
police station, though admittedly, as a part-time police photographer, it was
always possible he would be there. It was the day after Mervin Grimes had gone
to the morgue and Clara had come to the police station to see if there was
anything in their records concerning Mervin Grimes. Or rather, she had come to
see if there was anything useful in their records, as she was confident they
had an extensive library on the activities of the Black Hand gang. She was surprised
to see Oliver in the entrance, not least because he tried to avoid her at
first.

“Oliver?”

He looked embarrassed. In another person Clara might have
called it ‘shifty’, but she preferred to be more generous with Oliver. She
hoped nothing was wrong.

“Has there been a crime committed you must photograph?”
She asked.

“Er, no. I’m not here on official business.” Oliver
shrugged his shoulders and avoided her eyes.

Clara found herself turning to the desk sergeant for
insight into the strange behaviour of Oliver Bankes.

“Mr Bankes, they will be releasing your father from the
cells shortly.” The desk sergeant said helpfully, pushing a paper bag across
his counter, “Here are your father’s belongings and his camera. You may
appreciate the used plates have been disposed of.”

“Thank you.” Oliver said through tight lips.

Now Clara was really curious.

“Oliver, what has happened? Is your father all right?”

“Just a misunderstanding.” Oliver shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s a funny way of saying he was taking inappropriate
pictures.” The desk sergeant was being far more helpful than usual and Clara
decided that whatever had happened had quite amused him.

“What has he done, Oliver?” Clara insisted.

“Really, it is nothing!” Oliver hissed.

“He was caught red-handed photographing those nude birds
at the fairground.” The desk sergeant announced rather loudly with a grin.

Oliver looked mortified and Clara felt sorry for him.

“Perhaps, like Colonel Brandt, he misread the sign over
the Exotic Birds’ tent. It is rather misleading.” She said, hoping her tact
would rub off on the sergeant.

“No Clara, he knew exactly what he was doing.” Oliver
groaned, “He had already taken six plates before the fairground manager caught
up with him. Some were apparently quite indecent.”

“Oh.” Clara was beginning to wish she had not skipped
breakfast to get to the police station early. Had she indulged in some toast
and honey, as Annie had wanted her to, then she would have missed Oliver’s
discomfort and spared him from the extra embarrassment.

“They’re not charging him with anything, but he has been
warned.” Oliver continued forlornly, “I’ve got to try and keep an eye on him.”

“Parents can be such a chore.” Clara sympathised.

“You won’t mention this to anyone?” Oliver asked
desperately.

Clara touched his arm.

“I am good with secrets.”

Thanks. Look, here comes the old sot now.”

Mr Bankes emerged from the back of the station looking
sheepish.

“I see you have my camera safe Oliver.” He smiled at his
son and politely nodded to Clara, “Good morning Miss Fitzgerald, I’ve had a
little bit of bother. Nothing to worry about, complete misunderstanding.”

The desk sergeant gave a strangled snort which suggested
he was trying to suppress a s+nigger. Clara threw him a meaningful look.

“Let’s just get home father.” Oliver grabbed up the paper
bag and camera, “Clara’s got things to do.”

“Nice seeing you again Miss Fitzgerald, come around for
tea one Sunday.” Mr Bankes gave Clara another nod then followed his son out of
the station.

“Watch out for that one.” The desk sergeant said in a low
voice, tilting his head in the direction of Mr Bankes, “I know his type. No
matter what your friend said, his old man knew exactly what he was about. Never
have trusted these photographer-types, they like gawping at people too much.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Clara assured him before she
headed around the desk and down a long corridor towards the archive room.

Mr Bankes’ indiscretion was rapidly forgotten as she
strolled through the stacks of shelves and found a large section devoted to
criminal gangs, among them a hefty file on the Black Hand. She set it on a
table and opened the front page.

“The Black Hand, now I recall, that was the name of the
rebel group who orchestrated the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.”
Clara said to herself, “Somehow I doubt you were part of that Mr Grimes.”

She flicked over a couple of pages featuring names,
descriptions and mug-shots of known gang members. Most looked like youths who
had known little else in life but crime. A couple were older, but the average
age of a Black Hand member was definitely under thirty. It struck Clara that
these were not experienced criminals and the lists of arrest charges confirmed
that idea. Most of the gang were pickpockets, with the odd violent assault
charge thrown in for good measure. Things only got interesting when she reached
Mervin Grimes.

Mervin wanted more than a life of petty disorder. If he
was going to be a criminal he was going to at least make it worth his while. A
prison sentence at sixteen for petty theft had clearly not sat well with him,
after that he aimed for bigger things. Mervin found his way into organised
rings of race fixers, while doing a bit of pimping on the side. While the rest
of the gang amused themselves with run-of-the-mill street crime, Mervin was
making a name for himself. He helped fix a race when he was seventeen and was
caught soon after. Charged for doping a horse, he went down for a few months,
but was soon back out. He had learned from his mistake. There were no further
arrests for Mervin, though the police were clearly suspicious of him and knew
he was running with some dangerous crowds.

He was implicated in five more race fixing scandals, each
one scooping more money than the last. But it was his final fix, the one before
he disappeared, that took the biscuit. Mervin and his pals not only ensured a 200
to 1 odds horse finished first, but they screwed over a rival gang of race
fixers who were down from London. The local boys had scored against the
outsiders, but it was very much an own goal. Criminals who lose a lot of money
don’t tend to leave the scene quietly. In fact a spate of vicious murders
shortly after the race indicated how displeased their London rivals were.
Mervin’s disappearance was treated as just another of these revenge killings.

In all honesty Clara could see the police’s logic and was
almost prepared to accept the obvious. Almost. Because all the other victims
had been found. That had been the point. Take Billy ‘Razor’ Brown, for
instance. He was found under Brighton pier, his fingers smashed, his throat
slit and his pockets still full of his share of the winnings. It was plain to
see this was a warning to other rivals who thought they could best the City
boys. All the murders had followed similar patterns; a few had even been drawn
to the police’s attention by anonymous tips that suggested the Londoners were
making doubly sure their messages were found. Mervin, however, just vanished.

Of course, one should never rule out the obvious. For all
Clara knew Mervin was meant to be found, but fate took a hand and his body
ended up concealed. He was shot, after all, and several of the other victims
had perished that way too. Trouble was, Clara couldn’t see how she could trace
London mob boys, at least not safely. She returned to the shelves and found
there were a few files on the thugs from London, clearly the Brighton police
were keeping tabs of trouble-makers on their holidays. She cross-checked the
suspect names in the Black Hand killings against these files and came up with a
pile of five. All but one were still apparently alive, but that didn’t help
much. Clara scribbled down their names, but felt herself rapidly running into a
dead end. It was time, she decided, to look at things from the other direction.
Mervin’s corpse had been on quite a journey, if she could narrow down how he
ended up in a fairground masquerading as a pharaoh, just maybe she would have a
clue to his killer.

She returned the files and gathered up her hat and bag, a
new purpose in her actions. One way or the other she would fathom out the last
chapter in Mervin’s life. She just hoped it wouldn’t be one that led her into
dangerous company.

The fair was due to be around until the end of the month,
so the stall-holders, ride operators and performers had settled into their
surroundings, 10 o’clock in the morning was a little early for much trade,
aside from some mothers with small children. Things would liven up as the
afternoon drifted into evening, for the moment things were almost peaceful and
several of the fairground residents were taking the opportunity to relax for a
while. Clara walked past the Siamese twins eating popcorn from a paper bag and
arguing in a foreign tongue. A little further on she spotted the prim mermaid,
now tail-less, flirting with the fair’s strongman. It seemed everyone had
emerged from their dark tents and caravans to make the most of the sunshine.
Except Bowmen. Clara wondered if the man ever ventured into daylight or, like
Dracula in that horrid film Tommy had insisted on taking his sister to see, he
cowered back at the burning rays of sunshine. Clara knocked on the door of his
caravan. There was no response.

“Derek doesn’t like entertaining people at this time of
day.”

Clara turned and found herself before the now non-bearded
lady, Jane Porter.

“I really must speak to him.” Clara said.

“Is it about Hepkaptut?”

“Yes.”

“There was trouble again last night.” Jane pursed her
lips, “Some fellows said they had come for the mummy and were not pleased when
Derek told them he was gone.”

“What did these fellows want?”

“They didn’t say, but something was itching in their
britches. I thought they were going to try and hit Derek, and that would have
been a bad move. Aside from the many ‘helpers’ Derek employs for the purposes
of sorting out trouble, he is a dab hand with a right hook himself.”

“You know Mr Bowmen well?”

“Rather! He was the one that discovered me, if that’s the
word for it.” Jane gave a sad sigh, “It’s not a happy thing being a girl who
has to shave every morning. Derek brought his travelling show through my old
village one day. It wasn’t as grand as all this then, of course. At the time I
had taken to going around wearing a veil, but everyone knew about my problem,
that’s the sort of secret village folk love to share. In any case, Derek heard
about me and he made me an offer. I could live all my life beneath a veil or
join his show and display my abnormality. To be honest I didn’t really see
there was much choice.”

“It must be hard travelling all the time.”

“Not really. You get used to it and these days I have my
own caravan. Though, as bearded ladies go, I am not much of a specimen at the
moment.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure I see a bit of stubble on your
chin.” Clara said helpfully.

“Thank you.” Jane smiled, “I never thought I would miss
it so.”

“Look, perhaps you can help me? Does Mr Bowmen keep
records for the fair?”

“Naturally.”

“So he could tell me when Hepkaptut became one of the
exhibits?”

“Oh, even I can tell you that. It was about a year ago.”

 “Where did he come from?”

“That I can’t say, look, come for a cup of coffee and I
shall try and answer your questions. By the time we are done Derek might have
roused himself.”

Jane Porter led the way through the tents to a small
stand with a big hot water urn and a man dressed in a turban. The decoration
around the stall and the name above proclaimed he was selling the best Turkish
coffee ever found in England.

“Two cups, Fred.” Jane asked the man who responded with
‘righto’ in a Scottish accent.

Jane motioned to several deckchairs in front of the
stall, picking out one for herself and waiting for Clara to sit in the next
one, before she carried on talking.

“The war really made life hard for us.” Jane explained,
“A lot of the young fellows joined up, of course, can’t blame them. And we had
several of our steam engines requisitioned for the war effort. What was left
over was us ladies, and the odds and sods too old for war, or too
different
.
We fended for ourselves as best we could. Derek managed to wrangle his way out
of serving, I never asked how. We travelled with a smaller fair, but it wasn’t
easy. Derek came up with the idea of making it a patriotic affair, lots of
flags and pictures of the king, and donating so much of our takings to the war
effort. That helped, but lots of people just couldn’t bring themselves to enjoy
the fair when far away their men were dying. In any case, by 1916 travelling
was too difficult. Our last horses had been spirited away into the British
army, so there was no one to pull our wagons. Derek rented a small field for
the caravans, threw tarpaulins over the remaining rides, and told us to sit
tight and hope. I did a shift in a munitions factory for a time. That was quite
amusing.”

The look on Jane’ face as she remembered this implied it
had been quite the opposite. The Scottish man in the turban brought over their
coffees and Clara peered into the deep depths of the sultry brown drink. She
was not a fan of coffee, especially black.

“For two years you just kicked your heels?”  Clara asked,
stirring her spoon suspiciously in the dark liquid.

“Pretty much. Us show folk are not much good at saving
money, so it was a bad time. Armless Arnold nearly starved to death.”

“When did you begin to tour again?”

“December 1918! Don’t think us callous, but we needed the
work. As soon as the victory bells had stopped ringing off we went. Took some
doing finding new steam engines and horses, and rounding up performers and
rides, not to mention helpers. But we got there and ever since then Derek has
been making the fair bigger and better.”