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Authors: Sally Spencer

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‘Only it turns . . . it turns out that wasn’t it at all. It turns out that he’d got some whore pregnant and wanted to arrange an abortion for her.’ Meade paused. ‘Why did he do that, Sam?’

‘Why did he arrange the abortion?’

‘Why did he betray that lovely wife of his? Why did he betray his beautiful children?’

‘It happens,’ Blackstone said, wishing he was as drunk as Meade, but knowing that getting drunk wasn’t the answer.

‘The man was a Catholic, Sam,’ Meade said bitterly. ‘And you know what that means, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do know, so there’s no need for you to . . .’

‘It means that in the eyes of his church, he was getting himself involved in a murder.’

‘The abortion never actually took place,’ Blackstone reminded him. ‘The woman—’

The mistress! The slut! The whore!’

‘Told Dr Muller that she had miscarried naturally.’

‘But it
could
have happened,’ Meade protested. ‘Patrick – the Catholic
saint –
was perfectly happy
for
it to happen.’

‘We know that he was prepared to go through with it, but that’s not the same as being
happy
about it,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘In fact, though I never met the man, I’m sure he wasn’t happy at all.’

‘I used to look up to him, Sam,’ Meade said drunkenly. ‘He was my hero. Now, I’m not even sure I
want
to catch his killer any more.’

That was the trouble with hero-worship, Blackstone thought. You built your hero into such a colossus that he could never live up to your expectations for long. And when he failed to, it didn’t just diminish his stature a little – it brought him crashing down to the ground.

‘Whether or not you still like the victim, a crime has been committed, and it’s your job to arrest the guilty man,’ he said.

‘Maybe . . . maybe you’re right,’ Meade agreed. ‘But how do we go about arresting him when both your half circles are going nowhere?’

And there, Blackstone was forced to admit, Meade had a point.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
he sky above New York City that summer morning was perfect, Blackstone thought. Or at least, he corrected himself in the interest of accuracy, it was as perfect as any sky over a big city – which was constantly pushing poisonous fumes up into the air – ever could be.

And the sky was not the only thing which was working hard to show nature at its most benevolent. Flowers bloomed. Birds chirped happily in the trees. The softest of cooling breezes was blowing up the avenues. It was a day which celebrated life – a day which most people out on the street would feel promised fresh beginnings and new opportunities.

The promise wasn’t working for Sergeant Alex Meade. As they drank their coffee together – in the same saloon where Meade had gotten smashed the night before – the sergeant grappled with a sense of failure and disillusionment which was even more powerful than his hangover.

‘I was wrong – completely wrong – to have ever thought that Patrick O’Brien could be perfect,’ he said.

‘Yes, you were,’ Blackstone agreed.

‘But he worked hard for this city – he displayed a courage and determination that most men never come close to – and so I was
also
wrong to say that I didn’t care whether or not his killer was caught.’ Meade paused for a moment. ‘I did
say
that, didn’t I?’

‘Among a lot of other things, yes,’ Blackstone replied, with a smile. ‘Consistency wasn’t your strong point last night.’

‘And neither was moderation,’ Meade groaned.

A patrolman entered the saloon, carrying a buff envelope in his hand. He looked around briefly, before making for the table at which Blackstone and Meade were sitting.

‘Is there something I can do for you, Officer Caldwell? Alex Meade asked, though his tone suggested that what he wanted most in the world was the patrolman to go away.

Caldwell studied the sergeant for a moment, then a broad grin spread across his face.

‘You look rough, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I think it must be quite a while since I’ve seen anybody look rougher.’

Meade groaned. ‘Thank you, Caldwell,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it that you’ve come all the way across the street just to tell me that.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t
just
for that,’ Caldwell replied cheerily. ‘They said at headquarters that you wanted to know when the girl’s body would be released for burial. Well, it’s ready now, and all the next-of-kin has to do is send the undertakers round to pick it up.’

‘Good,’ Meade said. ‘Thank you, Caldwell. And sorry about snapping at you just now.’

‘That’s OK, Sarge, I’ve been hungover myself.’ The patrolman turned to leave, then remembered the envelope he was holding. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’

‘What is it?’

‘Post-mortem report on the girl.’

‘I thought I’d asked them not to do a post-mortem,’ Meade said, visibly pained by the process of having to use his brain. ‘I thought I’d asked them as a special favour to me.’

‘You probably did – but you know what they’re like, they never listen,’ Caldwell said, with a continuing cheerfulness that was even starting to irritate Blackstone. ‘Anyway, they cut her up, and they did their report. The top copy’s already been filed back at headquarters. This one’s the spare. What do you want me to do with it?’

‘Why should
I
want you to do anything with it?’ Meade asked plaintively.

‘Well, it is kind of connected with your case, ain’t it? So what
should
I do with it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Meade said, holding his head. ‘Why don’t you file it somewhere else?’

‘Like where?’

‘In somebody’s desk drawer,’ Meade suggested hopefully.

‘Whose drawer?’

‘Or you could simply throw it away,’ Meade said. ‘Hell, you can stick it up your ass, for all I care.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry about that, Officer Caldwell.
Really
sorry! Making decisions just seems like very hard work at the moment.’

Blackstone held out his hand to the patrolman.

‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold it until Sergeant Meade’s eyes can read small print again, and then I’ll give it to him.’

‘The way he’s looking now, that should be about next Tuesday,’ Caldwell said. Then he handed the envelope to Blackstone, gave the two of them a parting grin, and left.

‘Some night I’m going to get
him
drunk,’ Meade said, with bitter sincerity. ‘I’m going to get him so drunk he’s legless. And then I’m going to stand over him, laughing – for hours!’ He looked at the report in Blackstone’s hand. ‘Read it,’ he suggested.

‘Why?’ Blackstone asked.

‘Why not?’ Meade countered. ‘I’m going to be no good for anything until I’ve had at least
three
more cups of coffee, so you might as well entertain yourself in any way you can.’

Blackstone nodded. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to do anyway, he thought.
Somebody
should show they cared enough about Jenny to at least
read
the report – and if not a fellow orphan like himself, then who?

He took the report out of the envelope and read about the organ failure which had resulted from the dramatic loss of blood.

But it was what was written at the bottom of the report – almost as an afterthought – which shook him.

‘I have to go,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Stay here until I get back. Or, if you feel capable of moving, leave a message so I’ll know where you’ve gone.’

‘Is this . . .?’ Meade asked, struggling for the words. ‘Is this about something in the report?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Blackstone said, already heading for the door.

‘But what . . .?’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Blackstone promised.

Nancy Greene and Eddie Toscanini lived on the first floor of a dilapidated house about halfway down Little Water Street, and when Blackstone hammered on the door, the whole building seemed to quake.

It was Nancy who opened the door, just wide enough for Blackstone to see the muscular young man with jet black hair who was lying lazily on the bed.

‘You again!’ Nancy said.

Her other eye had been blackened since the last time that he’d seen her, Blackstone saw.

And that was probably his fault. He had forced Nancy to stop and talk to him, which meant that Eddie had been kept waiting for his beer – and Eddie had punished her for that.

‘What do you want?’ Nancy asked.

‘We need to go somewhere we can talk again. And this time, when it’s over, I won’t be bringing you back here,’ Blackstone said.

‘I don’t understand,’ Nancy said.

‘I thought you were the one who’d got Jenny into trouble,’ Blackstone explained. ‘That’s why I didn’t care much about what happened to you. But
now
I know that you tried to help her as much as it was in your power to.’

‘I did,’ Nancy said, almost crying. ‘I really did.’

‘So I’m going to help
you
,’ Blackstone promised. ‘And I’m going to start by getting you out of this place.’

Eddie Toscanini had got off the bed and padded lithely across the room. Now he grabbed Nancy by the hair, jerked her roughly away, and took her place in the doorway.

‘What’s this all about?’ he demanded.

He was a big man, Blackstone noted – a big man with a flat stomach and bulging biceps.

‘Well?’ Eddie said.

‘I’m taking Nancy away,’ Blackstone told him. ‘And she won’t be coming back.’

‘She doesn’t go anywhere without my say-so,’ Eddie growled.

‘She is this time,’ Blackstone said firmly. ‘And if I were you, I wouldn’t try to stop her.’

Eddie glanced quickly up and down the corridor. ‘You’re on your own!’ he said incredulously.

‘That’s right, I am,’ Blackstone agreed.

‘You’re on your own, an’ you’re still
threatenin
’ me?’

‘No, I’m
warning
you,’ Blackstone told him. ‘This doesn’t have to end in violence, you know.’

Eddie sneered. ‘Oh, but it does,’ he said. ‘See, I like hurtin’ people. It makes me feel good – even when the people I’m hurtin’ are old men like you, with no real fight left in them.’

And as he spoke, he put his right hand into his pocket, where people like him always kept their brass knuckledusters.

Blackstone watched Eddie’s pants’ pocket bulge and undulate, as the young thug’s fingers first located the holes in the knuckleduster, and then slipped quickly into them.

‘I’ve got a pistol,’ the inspector said.

‘That won’t do you no good at all,’ Eddie said. ‘If you was goin’ to use your pistol, you should have drawn it while you had the chance. Now I’ll have you on the ground before you even reach the holster.’

‘You’re missing the point,’ Blackstone replied. ‘I didn’t draw it earlier because I didn’t need to. I can handle you without it.’

The young bruiser chuckled. ‘So you’ve got a bit of spirit after all,’ he said. ‘Oh, I am goin’ to enjoy workin’
you
over. It’s goin’ to be a
real
pleasure.’

Eddie feinted with his left fist, and Blackstone sidestepped, putting himself in just the right spot for the real attack, which would come from the knuckleduster on Eddie’s right hand.

Oh, this was really too easy, Eddie thought, in the split second before he realized that his knuckledustered right hand was travelling though empty air, and that his nose felt as if it was exploding.

‘First law of street fighting, Eddie,’ Blackstone said, as he grabbed the other man’s arm and bent it right up around his back. ‘If you don’t get control in the first two seconds, you’ll
never
get it.’

‘You son-of-a-bitch!’ Eddie mumbled, as he tried to breathe through his broken nose.

‘Collect up anything you want, and we’ll take it with us,’ Blackstone told Nancy.

Eddie was starting to struggle again.

‘If you keep doing that, I’ll have to break your arm,’ Blackstone warned the young thug.

‘Break it anyway!’ Nancy said.

‘Anything to oblige,’ Blackstone told her.

And he did just that.

Blackstone booked Nancy into a modest but pleasant boarding house near the Mulberry Street police headquarters, and then took her to the equally modest restaurant across the street for lunch.

‘An’ what happens to me now?’ Nancy asked, after she had wolfed down her food.

‘That’s up to you,’ Blackstone told her. ‘As I told you before, you can’t go back to the van Horne mansion, but I’m sure Mr Boone can find you a position in another house, if that’s what you want.’

Nancy smiled. ‘He’s a nice man, that Mr Boone,’ she said. ‘A good, kind, helpful man. And so are you.’

‘Could we talk about Jenny, now?’ Blackstone asked.

Nancy nodded. ‘Yes. What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me about when you first began to suspect that something was wrong,’ Blackstone suggested.

‘It’s hard to put a finger on it,’ Nancy told him. ‘A couple of months after she’d left the orphanage to work for the O’Briens, Jenny began to talk about a boyfriend. But she did it in a shy, teasing way – like she was proud of it, but worried about it all at the same time, if you know what I mean.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘To be honest, I thought she was making him up at first. Some girls do that. But when she kept on about him, I started to believe he was real. And that’s when she told me he wasn’t a boy at all – he was a man.’

‘Inspector O’Brien?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that’s why you would never go to the O’Briens’ house yourself? Because you knew what he was doing to her?’

‘If I’d seen him in the flesh, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself scratching his eyes out.’

Blackstone laughed. ‘I believe you’d have done just that,’ he said admiringly. ‘What advice did you give her?’ he continued, more seriously.

BOOK: Blackstone and the New World

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