Summon Up the Blood (7 page)

T
he Special Crimes Department occupied an attic room in the northernmost building of New Scotland Yard. It had a sharply sloped ceiling, interrupted by a dormer window. Quinn himself was just short of six feet tall. He was only able to stand up straight at the highest part of the room. He frequently forgot this, especially when rising from his desk.

More or less the same height as their chief, Sergeants Inchball and Macadam also brought a great deal of physical bulk to the department. It was a cramped space for three big policemen.

The photographs that Quinn had tacked to the one full-length wall seemed to reduce the space even more. It was not a wall any decent person would want to go anywhere near. It turned one corner of a perfectly respectable red-brick and granite building into a cubicle of Hell.

Only Quinn showed any willingness to approach the wall. For the briefing, Inchball and Macadam were forced to huddle, bowed, beneath the incline of the roof. It seemed an appropriate posture in which to face the savagery depicted.

Quinn had had one other photograph made, an enlargement of the inside of the cigarette case, showing the inscription:

To be entirely free

D.P.

Inchball frowned. His brows flowed together in a slow, viscous ripple. Macadam scratched his scalp, visible through the sparse stubble of his razor cut. Both men exchanged perplexed glances: it seemed the chief had finally lost it.

Quinn knew that he was overexcited, or that that was how it would seem to his men. He knew that they would look at the neat calligraphic script blown up large and wonder what all the fuss was about.

‘Who of us can say that he is truly free? From the moment of our birth, we are bound to others. As children, we are subject to the rule of our parents. As adults, we are constrained by the conventions and expectations of society. By the necessity to earn a crust. By the obligations placed on us by our fellows. The ties that bind us are the claims of our common humanity. It is only by renouncing those claims, by severing those bonds, that we are able to break free. Every transgression, every act of rebellion, is a moment of freedom. The schoolboy who steals an apple from an orchard.’ Quinn glanced at the photograph of the unidentified victim’s anus. ‘The young man who rents out his arse to strangers. The depraved monster who pays for that accommodation and slits the throat and drains the blood of the one providing it. The greater the crime, the greater the freedom. Freedom is rooted in power. He who is powerful is free. And there is no more power-filled act than the taking of a life.
To be entirely free,
gentlemen.
To be entirely free!
That is why one kills. And that is why I am in no doubt that this cigarette case is a gift from the murderer. A gift for us.’

‘Away with the fairies,’ muttered Inchball, who had a habit of saying whatever was on his mind. It was largely on account of this habit that Quinn had wanted him on his team.

‘What was that, Inchball?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘I distinctly heard you say something.’

Inchball did not need much prompting. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, with respect and all that, but I have known some murderers in my life. Some of them have been what I would call, sir, pathetic individuals. Would not say boo to a goose to look at them, that is, sir.’

‘Very good, Inchball. As ever, I value your contribution. Your point is well made. But it does not contradict what I was saying. One may be powerless and downtrodden in every other aspect of one’s life, defeated and depressed by countless frustrations. But to the extent that one is capable of depriving another of life –’

‘Of murder, sir? It’s murder what you are talking about?’

‘Yes, Inchball.’

‘Then I would be obliged to you, sir, if you would use the word. Let’s call a spade a spade, I say, sir. All this talk of depriving individuals of life.
Murder
, sir. That’s what it is.’

‘Thank you, Inchball. Where was I? Yes. To the extent that one is capable of
murder
– and especially in the moment of committing it – one is all powerful. Before that point, the frustrations accumulate. The destructive emotion – we might call it rage – intensifies, until at last it cannot be denied. It must be sated. The power must be allowed to flow. Blood must be shed.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Inchball. ‘You certainly sound like you know what you are talking about. But if I may say, sir, where does it get us?’

‘It gets us closer to the murderer. Mark my words, this cigarette case will take us to him.’

‘We’ve had it dusted for prints, sir,’ said Macadam in a discouraging tone. Macadam was a great one for the scientific approach to policing. He frequently attended lectures, subscribed to a number of incomprehensible journals, and was forever suggesting to Quinn that the department employ the services of this or that expert to help them in their investigations. He had been Sir Edward’s choice, but Quinn valued him all the same, because his approach was so different to his own.

Quinn hesitated a beat before asking, ‘And?’

‘Nothing, sir. Well, nothing once they had discarded certain extraneous prints. If you don’t mind me saying, sir, if you could remember to don the cotton gloves when handling items of material evidence, it really would make the forensic boys’ lives a lot easier. Mind you, you’re not the only one. Apparently, the inspector at Shadwell had left his prints all over it too.’

‘I find the gloves . . . get in the way.’ Quinn avoided Macadam’s disapproving glower.

‘Well, it’s something to aim for, isn’t it, sir? A target, we might say.’ Macadam gave a small mime of flexing and releasing the string on an archer’s bow. Because of the stoop imposed by the sloping ceiling, the imaginary arrow was aimed at Quinn’s foot.

‘Did the
forensic boys
find anything at all that might enlighten us?’ Quinn hoped that by using Macadam’s term he might appease him.

The sergeant reached across to his desk to retrieve a slip of paper which he handed to Quinn. ‘Their report, sir.’

Quinn scanned the document, ignoring the complaints about contamination. At last his eye was caught by the very detail he was looking for. ‘Excellent!’

‘Is that the tobacco flake, sir?’

‘Yes, Macadam. This may be just the breakthrough we need.’

‘A single tobacco flake, sir. It’s not much to go on. But I was chatting to Charlie Cale. He’s my friend in the lab, sir. A very clever young man, if I may say so. Well, Charlie Cale has made a bit of a study of tobacco, sir. Got the idea from Sherlock Holmes, I don’t doubt. He’s a great one for reading detective stories.’

‘That’s all we need,’ said Inchball.

‘Yes. But that needn’t concern us. He reckons the tobacco found in that cigarette case, sir, came from an Egyptian cigarette. The tobacco is actually Turkish. But it is a type of Turkish tobacco used by Egyptian cigarette manufacturers.’

‘Can he identify the exact brand?’

‘What he can say, sir, is that the tobacco had been soaked in opium.’

‘And so, we are looking for a killer who smokes opium-soaked Egyptian cigarettes!’

‘With respect and all that, sir, we cannot say that for certain,’ objected Inchball. ‘We may only be able to say that this cigarette case once contained such cigarettes.’

‘Your caution is commendable, Inchball. But what of the letters D.P.? Are we at least able to say that we are looking for a murderer whose initials are D.P.?’

‘Again, sir, I do not know that we are permitted to draw that conclusion. In the first place, why would the killer put his initials on an object which is bound to come into the police’s possession?’

‘To tantalize us? I believe we are dealing with an arrogant individual. It is always the arrogant ones who play these games.’

‘Now there I agree with you, sir . . .’

‘Really, Inchball? I am flattered. And I agree with you. On consideration, I believe they are unlikely to be his initials. Perhaps he means us to assume they are. He is trying to mislead us. But if they are not his initials, what do the letters stand for? I feel they must mean something.’

‘Differential Pressure,’ said Macadam quickly. ‘D.P. – Differential Pressure . . .? No?’ Sensing the scepticism of his colleagues, he had another stab: ‘Or it might be Dramatis Personae. In plays, you know, sir. Then there’s Deceased Person. Oh, and Dreadnought Programme.’

‘It also stands for Detective Prick,’ said Inchball bluntly.

The three men were startled by the ringing of the telephone, a recent addition to the department. Sir Edward had insisted on its installation.

They had all been trained in its use, although Macadam, as the most technologically inclined, viewed it as his preserve. He leapt to answer it now. ‘Special Crimes.’

He listened breathlessly for a moment, before handing the device to Quinn.

‘
The answer’s no, Quinn
.’ The tiny voice sounded like a wasp trapped inside a snare drum. A more absolute buzzing filled the earpiece as the line went dead. Quinn gave the telephone back to Macadam.

‘Bad news, sir?’

‘It was Sir Edward. I put in a request to release the photograph to the newspapers, or rather an artist’s rendition of it, without the wound. He has vetoed it.’

‘So we must find out the queer’s identity the hard way?’ said Inchball.

‘I’ve been through the Rogues’ Gallery, sir, as we discussed.’ Macadam’s voice was again discouraging. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid. I’ve made a start going back through relevant case files now. There may be photographs in there that haven’t found their way into the Rogues’ Gallery, for some reason. You never know. Many a slip twixt cup and lip and all that.’

‘Your thoroughness is commendable, Macadam. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the inscription. Let us go back to the first part.
To be entirely free.
Does it not strike you as the kind of thing someone might get out of a book? A quotation, in other words. Couldn’t D.P.
refer to the title of the book in question? Or the author?’

Macadam and Inchball regarded the enlargement of the inscription thoughtfully.

‘That makes sense,’ said Inchball.

‘Where do we begin, though, sir? There have been so many books written,’ said Macadam forlornly.

‘We must think about the kind of books that would appeal to a decadent individual such as is capable of doing this.’ Quinn gestured vaguely at the wall.

‘I know a couple of bookshops in Soho that stock the kind of literature you have in mind,’ said Inchball.

‘Perfect. However, we must find a way to elicit their cooperation without intimidating them. In my experience, such establishments tend to be wary of the police. Perhaps it would be best to conduct our inquiries there discreetly. One of us could pose as a gentleman interested in material of that nature.’

Macadam and Inchball looked at one another uneasily. ‘With respect and all that, sir,’ began Inchball, ‘I think you might be the best man for that job.’

The chief’s reaction seemed to surprise the two sergeants. ‘I have no objections to that. Indeed, I think it is an excellent suggestion. It will allow me to get deeper into the mind of the individual we are looking for. To understand the man, explore the milieu. So I will go to these bookshops, and to other places where these types are found. Despite the fact that the body was found in Shadwell, I do not think that was within his usual orbit. He may have come from the East End originally, we cannot know. But if he made his living as a renter, as the state of his anus suggests, then I believe his occupation will have drawn him closer to the West. Piccadilly. Tottenham Court Road. Hyde Park. And yes, Soho. He must have had friends, associates. These are the places where we will find them.’

‘And you mean to go undercover, sir?’ Macadam was uneasy.

‘Yes.’

‘Posing as a sodomite?’ wondered Inchball.

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. My objective will be to draw as little attention to myself as possible. So I will not be posing as anything. However, I shall endeavour to blend in. I expect I will play it by ear.’

‘Dangerous,’ was Inchball’s judgement.

‘It need not be. I shall simply be asking a few questions. I shall have to think of a plausible cover story, of course.’

‘Very dangerous.’

‘What are you worried about, Inchball?’

‘For one thing, that we might find you with your throat slit and your arse full of spunk.’

‘I will be careful, of course.’

‘It doesn’t matter how careful you are. If you go in like this, you’ve got no protection. Anything could happen to you, sir. With respect and all that.’

‘I shall simply be trying to get the lie of the land. I shall not even have with me a photograph of the dead man to show.’

‘I am glad to hear that, sir. Because that would be very dangerous.’

‘No, I shall stick with my plan to create an artist’s rendition of the dead man. Instead of releasing it to the newspapers, I shall use it in my enquiries. I shall speak to one of the police artists – Petter would be the man. I’ll have Petter draw a living portrait from the post-mortem photograph. I shall have it framed. My cover story will be that I am looking for a friend . . .’

‘A friend whose name you don’t know?’ objected Inchball.

‘A friend whom I believe gave me a false name.’

‘Not much of a friend then?’

‘We met at . . . Victoria Station. In the public bar.’

‘Public bar or public convenience?’

‘Public bar. I do not want to appear too overtly deviant. We met while waiting for our respective trains – or so I thought.’

‘Yes, good,’ said Macadam. ‘You should appear rather innocent, sir. Perhaps even naive. You didn’t realize that he was there to pick men up. If that could come as a shock to you, sir, that would strike the right note, I think.’

‘I shall endeavour. At any rate, we struck up a friendship. He seemed a troubled young man. Reminded me of myself when younger.’

‘Really, sir. In what way?’

‘He seemed lost. I wanted to help him. But he ran off before I could.’

‘How did you get the portrait?’ demanded Inchball.