Lockwood (15 page)

Lockwood shook his head. ‘Be strong, George. Remember – no provocations!’

We stood a while at the chapel entrance, analysing the spot where the unfortunate night-watch guard had been attacked. It faced slightly away from the camp, and would have been in darkness. An intruder might certainly have approached sidelong from the bushes, climbed up onto the steps, and stood there without being seen by anyone below. The lock of the door itself had been stoved in by something sharp, probably a chisel.

That was all we could make out. We ducked under the tape and out of the day’s heat, into the cool of the chapel.

Things hadn’t changed much since Barnes’s photo had been taken. Chains, coffin, and the crumpled corpse of Dr Bickerstaff: all were as before – except that, rather to my relief, the body had been covered with a piece of dirty sacking.

In the daylight, the iron coffin seemed bigger than I remembered it: hefty, thick-walled and crusted with corrosion. Off to one side, a discarded watch-stick lay amid the scattered salt and iron.

Lockwood bounded over to the chains; he bent low and inspected the flagstones. ‘The thieves crouched just outside the circle,’ he said. ‘You can see the toe-prints of their boots here, scuffed into the salt. It was dawn. They were almost safe from Visitors. But they didn’t want to bank on it. They’d knocked out the kid and taken his stick. They used that to pry open the lid and pull off the silver net. Then they hung back, waiting to see if anything happened. Nothing did. All was quiet. Now they stepped into the circle and tipped the coffin, so the body tumbled out onto the floor.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do that? Why not just grab the mirror?’

‘Maybe they wanted to see if anything else was in there,’ George said.

‘And they didn’t want to manhandle Bickerstaff,’ I added. ‘
That
part I understand.’

‘Fair enough,’ Lockwood said. ‘So they tipped it over. But
was
there anything else inside . . .? And is there now?’

He hopped over the body and peered inside the coffin. Taking his rapier from his belt, he poked it into the furthest recesses. Then he straightened.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Odd. In the photograph, I thought . . .’

‘So what
did
you see in the photo?’ I asked.

‘A bundle of sticks.’ He brushed his hair irritably back from his face. ‘I know; doesn’t seem likely. Maybe it was a trick of the eyes. Anyway, it’s not there now.’

For a while we assessed the rest of the chapel. I paid particular attention to the little wooden door behind the altar rail. It had been padlocked and triple-bolted. I pulled at the padlock speculatively.

‘Internal door, leading down to the catacombs,’ I said. ‘Firmly locked on this side. I did wonder if that was the way the thieves came and went, though I suppose it doesn’t square with the night-watch kid’s account.’

‘Looks secure,’ Lockwood agreed. ‘OK, let’s go outside.’

‘So what do you think about Kipps’s theory?’ George asked as we set off down the steps. ‘You think the thieves went past the night-watchers’ camp? Think the kids are in on it somehow?’

Lockwood pulled at his long straight nose. ‘I very much doubt it. It’s far more likely that—’ He stopped; we’d heard a cry of pain.

The camp had quietened down since we’d been inside. Saunders, Joplin and the workmen had gone about their business, and Kipps was nowhere to be seen. Only one final night-watch kid was left, four burly Fittes agents standing over him like a wall. He was just picking up his checked yellow cap from the ground; as he stood up I recognized the surly urchin who’d been stationed at the gate the previous day. The kid put his cap back on. At once the biggest agent, Ned Shaw, leaned over and casually slapped the side of his head. The cap fell off again; the boy stumbled and almost fell.

Six quick strides – and Lockwood was at the scene. He tapped Shaw on his shoulder. ‘Stop doing that, please. You’re twice his size.’

Shaw turned round. He was about fifteen, as tall as Lockwood, and hefty with it. He had a bland, strong-jawed face, not unhandsome, except for eyes slightly too narrowly set. Like all the Fittes crowd, his outfit was pristine, but the effect was undermined by his brown shock of hair. It looked like a baby yak had fallen on him from on high.

Shaw blinked; there was uncertainty in his face. ‘Shove off, Lockwood. This has nothing to do with you.’

‘I understand your eagerness to clout this kid,’ Lockwood said. ‘I’ve itched to do the same myself. But it’s not on. You want to push people around, pick someone taller.’

Shaw’s lip curled like someone was winding it round a pencil. ‘I’ll push anyone I like.’

‘Little kids? That makes you a coward.’

Shaw smiled briefly; he looked out into the haze of the cemetery. He seemed to be thinking of something peaceful and far away. Then he turned and punched Lockwood hard on the side of the face – or tried to, because Lockwood swayed back and dodged the blow. Shaw’s momentum carried him forward; Lockwood took hold of his flailing arm and twisted it sharply to the side and back. At the same time he stuck his boot behind one of Shaw’s ankles. Shaw cried out; lost his balance, tripped over his own feet and fell, knocking into one of the other agents and sending them both flailing to the ground.

Shaw’s face flushed purple; he instantly sought to rise, but found the point of my rapier gently resting against his chest.

‘Our no-provocation rule is surprisingly flexible,’ George remarked. ‘Can I give him a kick too?’

Shaw silently regained his feet. Lockwood watched impassively. I lowered my sword-arm, but held it ready. None of the other Fittes agents did anything at all.

‘We can continue this whenever you like,’ Lockwood said. ‘Just name a time.’

‘Oh, we’ll continue it’ – Ned Shaw nodded – ‘don’t you worry about that.’ He glared at Lockwood and then at me, his fingers twitching.

‘Come on, Ned,’ one of his companions said. ‘This little runt doesn’t know anything anyway.’

Ned Shaw hesitated; he gave the night-watch boy a narrow, appraising stare. At last he nodded and gave a signal to the others. Without further words they loped away among the gravestones. The kid watched them go, his eyes wet and shining.

‘Pay no attention to him,’ Lockwood said. ‘They can’t really touch you.’

The boy drew himself up to his full, not very considerable height. He adjusted his cap with an angry gesture. ‘I know that. Course they can’t.’

‘They’re just bullies throwing their weight around. Some agents do that, I’m afraid.’

The boy spat into the cemetery grass. ‘Yeah. Agents. Stuck-up snobs, the lot of them. Who gives a damn about agents? Not me.’

There was a silence. ‘Yes, actually
we’re
agents too,’ I said, ‘but we’re different from Ned Shaw. We don’t use his methods. We respect the night watch. So if we ask you a few questions, it’ll be done differently. No slapping about, for one thing.’

I smiled winningly at the boy. The boy stared back at me.

‘We’re not going to thump you, is what I mean.’

The boy sniffed. ‘That’s a laugh. I’d like to see you try.’

Lockwood’s nostrils twitched slightly. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Listen, a dangerous artefact was stolen last night. In the wrong hands, it could do terrible things around London.’

The kid looked bored; he stared impassively at a patch of ground.

‘The theft happened while your team was on watch. One of your friends was badly injured, wasn’t he?’

‘Terry Morgan?’ The kid rolled his eyes. ‘That chinwipe? He ain’t my friend.’

We all stared at him. ‘Yeah,’ George breathed. ‘That statement I can believe.’

‘You were on the West Gate last night,’ Lockwood went on in a steely voice. ‘If you saw anything, if you know anything that can help, it would be well worth you telling us. Anything that might give us the clue we need.’

The boy shrugged. ‘Are we finished? Good, ’cos I’m missing chow time.’ He jerked a thumb towards the prefab cabin. ‘There’ll still be sandwiches in there. See you.’ He began to swagger away.

Lockwood stood back. He looked up and down the cemetery. No one was coming. He grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck, hoicked him squealing above the grass. ‘As I say,’ he said, ‘we’re not like that Fittes crowd. We don’t go in for slapping people about. We do have other methods, however, that are equally effective. See that chapel? There’s an iron coffin in there. It
was
occupied, but now it’s empty. Well, it’ll be occupied again in a minute if you don’t start answering my civil questions.’

The kid flicked a tongue over dry lips. ‘Get lost. You’re bluffing.’

‘You think so? You know little Bill Jones of the Putney night watch?’

‘No! I’ve never seen him!’

‘Exactly.
He
crossed us too. Lucy, George, grab a leg – we’re taking him inside.’

The boy kicked and squeaked, to no avail. We advanced towards the chapel.

‘What do you think?’ Lockwood said. ‘Five minutes in the coffin, see if he talks?’

I considered. ‘Make it ten.’

‘All right, all right!’ The kid was suddenly frantic. ‘I’ll co-operate! Put me down!’

We lowered him to the ground. ‘
That’s
better,’ Lockwood said. ‘Well then?’

The kid paused to adjust his cap, which now half covered his face. ‘I still reckon you’re bluffing,’ he panted, ‘but I’m missing my sandwiches, so . . .’ He rolled his shoulders as if to gear up his tongue. ‘Yeah, I was on the West Gate all last night. I saw nothing. After you left, no one came through at any time.’

‘You were there until after dawn?’

‘Until after the alarm was raised.’

‘Excellent.’ From nowhere, Lockwood brought forth a coin and tossed it to the boy. ‘There’s more of that if you can help me. Think you can?’

The kid looked hard at the coin. ‘Maybe.’

‘Then keep talking to me now. Come on! We haven’t got time to waste!’ With a sudden spring, Lockwood darted aside into the shadow of the chapel steps; he plunged into the bushes. ‘Come on!’ he called again. ‘This way!’

After a moment’s hesitation the kid’s greed got the better of him. He followed, despite himself. George and I did too.

Lockwood moved speedily, ducking under branches, dodging gravestones choked with thorns, following a trail that only he could see. He left the chapel behind, broke out onto a path, crossed it and plunged into another overgrown section of the cemetery. ‘You’ve confirmed exactly what I thought!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘The thieves found another way in. They got to and from the chapel by keeping to the unfrequented areas – like
this
bit, for instance, which leads right towards the boundary wall.’

He gave a flying leap, landed on a box-tomb, and clung to the angel atop it as he surveyed the ground beyond. ‘The undergrowth’s too thick
that
way,’ he mused. ‘But what about over there . . .? Aha! Yes . . . I see a route. We’ll try it!’ Jumping down, he grinned back at the night-watch kid. ‘Nothing went past you last night,’ he said. ‘But what about
other
nights? You keep your eyes open. Seen any strangers? Relic-men?’

The kid had been scampering to keep up, holding his cap to his head, seemingly mesmerized by the speed and decisiveness of Lockwood’s movements. His hostility had entirely vanished; he held the coin tightly in his grubby hand. ‘I seen some,’ he panted as we set off again. ‘There’s always a few hanging round the cemeteries.’

‘Any in particular?’

‘Couple. They’re well known, always go round together. Saw them a week or two back. Came in during public hours. Workmen had to chase them from the camp.’

‘Excellent!’ Lockwood cried. He was rushing down a grassy aisle between high stones. ‘Two together? Good. Can you describe them?’

‘One, not so much,’ the kid said. ‘Plump bloke, blond hair, scritty moustache. Young, wears black. Name of Duane Neddles.’

George made a sceptical noise that sounded like gas escaping from a rhino. ‘
Duane Neddles?
Oh, he sounds
scary
. Sure you’re not making this up?’

‘And the other?’ Lockwood called.

The kid hesitated. ‘
He’s
got a reputation. A killer. They say he bumped off a rival during a job last year. Maybe I shouldn’t—’

Lockwood stopped suddenly. ‘It was a team of two last night that bashed your colleague,’ he said. ‘Let’s say one was Neddles. Who was the other?’

The kid leaned close, spoke softly. ‘They call him Jack Carver.’

A group of crows rose squalling from the gravestones. Wings cracking, they circled against the sky and flew off over the trees.

Lockwood nodded. He reached inside his coat, brought out a banknote and handed it to the disbelieving kid. ‘I’ll make it worth your while every time you give me decent information. If we find Neddles and Carver, I’ll give you twice that. Understand me? Now, I want Carver’s description.’

‘Carver?’ The boy scratched his chin. ‘Young man in his twenties, as tall as you, a little broader in the shoulders, heavier round the belly. He’s got light red hair, long and straggly. Pale skin, long nose. Narrow eyes, can’t recall the colour. Wears black: black jeans, black biker’s jacket. Carries a work-belt, bit like yours, and an orange rucksack. Oh yeah, and black lace-up boots, like the ones the skinheads wear.’

‘Thanks,’ Lockwood said. ‘I think we’re going to get on well.’ He set off up the path again. Ahead of us loomed the boundary wall, hidden behind a row of spreading limes.

The kid trotted along beside us, busily stuffing the money into some sweatily remote portion of his clothes. George shook his head. ‘Duane Neddles . . . Jack Carver . . . If you’re keen on giving money away so easily, Lockwood, don’t give it to random kids.
I
can make up silly names too.’

But Lockwood had halted so abruptly we almost bumped into him. ‘Look!’ he cried. ‘I knew it! We’re on the right track!’ He pointed ahead of us. There, lying in shadow beside a tree, was something I had only previously seen for a split second, held in a corpse’s fist. A ragged white cloth, lying crumpled in the grass.

We clustered close, but of course the mirror it had contained was gone.

‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Why ditch it here?’