The Mannequin House (18 page)

That night, he dreamt of the House of Blackley. To be more accurate, he dreamt of Mr Blackley. At first he didn’t recognize the great man of commerce, who was dressed in the red and white costume of Father Christmas, complete with a large white false beard. He was dispensing gifts to children. The children waited their turn in a long queue with unnatural patience. They were disturbingly impassive, faces without any expression of excitement or joy, bodies listless and enervated.

Although he was not a child, Quinn found himself standing in line waiting for his gift.

The line moved forward with infinite slowness. Quinn saw that the Father Christmas figure, as yet unrecognized, was handing out tiny automata in the shape of animals. The toys were extremely lifelike in their rendering and the movement of their parts. In fact, they did not seem like toys at all, but miniature versions of living creatures. He realized too that the animals were limited to the larger species of pachyderms – that is to say, elephants, rhinoceroses, hippopotamuses. Every now and then – presumably for a child who had been especially good – Father Christmas would produce a tiny woolly mammoth from his sack.

Quinn began to feel extremely anxious that Father Christmas would run out of pachyderm dolls before he reached the front of the line. There were children behind him now, waiting just as patiently, and silently, as those ahead of him. Quinn was the only one showing signs of agitation, which were exacerbated by the growing awareness that he needed to urinate. What if he had to rush off to the lavatory and by the time he came back Father Christmas had finished giving out the toys?

His sense of urgency rapidly grew into panic. He felt a kind of repugnance at the mute impassivity of the children. He realized, with a sudden dawning horror, that they were dead. He was terrified of looking down at himself, in case he saw that he, too, was a child. If that were the case, he would have to accept that he was dead also.

For some reason, his dreaming mind decided that the only way out of this situation was for him to shout: ‘The animals are escaping!’

The dead children began to scream and run about. Quinn knew that he was secretly pleased by their new-found liveliness. He felt that it justified his cry of false alarm. He had brought them back to life. Surely that entitled him to move to the front of the queue?

It was only now that he recognized the man in the Father Christmas costume as Benjamin Blackley. Now, too, that he saw the pool of red liquid at Blackley’s feet, and realized that the red colour of Blackley’s costume was due to it being drenched in blood.

Blackley’s hand reached into the writhing sack of automata. His eyes were fixed on Quinn’s. It was at this precise moment that Quinn became aware that he was in a dream, a dream from which he desperately wanted to wake. But at the same time his fascination at what Blackley would produce from the sack held him. He had the premonition of an even greater horror than any that the dream had presented to him so far.

Blackley’s hand came up slowly. Until the moment it emerged from the sack, Quinn had no idea what it would be holding, though somehow he knew it would not be a miniature pachyderm.

All horror fell away. Quinn felt a wave of joy wash over him. He felt at peace, redeemed.

There, balanced on Blackley’s blood-soaked forearm, its head nestled into the crook of his elbow, was a perfect living baby, kicking its legs and clenching for life with its tiny fists.

Quinn was weeping as he woke from the dream.

I
nchball and Macadam looked up apprehensively from their desks. Relief swept over their faces at the sight of Quinn. He was not sure who they were expecting. Situated in a cramped attic in a forgotten part of New Scotland Yard, the Special Crimes Department received few casual visitors and no passing trade.

Then it struck Quinn. The last time he had seen his two sergeants was after the debacle at Blackley’s but before his meeting with Sir Edward. They had fully expected him to be suspended from duty.

Quinn shook the rain off his herringbone Ulster and hung it on the coat stand just inside the door, placing his bowler on the longer hook above. He negotiated his way along the highest part of the room, the only area where he was able to stand upright, to approach the one full-length wall. It was blank now. The photographs from their last case had been pulled down and filed away. But some haunting vestige of their presence remained; a projection of his memory. Unlike the monochrome images that had in reality been fixed there, his mind supplied the colours of the crimes, the blood, the naked flesh and what lay beneath that flesh, the glistening secrets of the dissecting table.

The only way he could block these images out was to begin to cover the wall with new evidence. Old crimes obliterated with new. ‘So, what do we have?’

‘Are we carrying on with the case?’ asked Macadam.

‘Of course. What happened at Blackley’s store had nothing to do with our investigation.’

‘It was on our watch,’ said Inchball flatly. ‘That’s how it works. Don’t matter if it ain’ your fault; if it happens on your watch, you carry the can.’

‘Sir Edward doesn’t operate like that.’

‘So that’s it? We’re in the clear?’

‘Not quite. He’s bringing in another officer.’

‘Over us?’

‘Over me. So, yes, therefore over all of us.’

‘A new Head of Special Crimes?’ said Macadam. His voice trembled. ‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll find out this morning.’

‘But if he accepts you ain’ done nothin’ wrong, why shaft you like this?’ wondered Inchball.

‘I hardly think of it as being shafted,’ said Quinn. ‘In fact, I’m grateful. Ever since this department was set up I have been lobbying Sir Edward for more men. Today, finally, I have my wish.’

Inchball eyed him sceptically.

‘In the meantime, I suggest we carry on as normal. That is to say, we review the evidence we have discovered so far. Inchball, how did you get on with Spiggott’s friend, Davies?’

But before Inchball could answer, they heard the approach of steel-capped footsteps. The door opened to reveal a familiar figure in a herringbone Ulster, his mouth hidden by a drooping moustache.

‘DCI Coddington?’ said Quinn. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I . . . well . . . the truth is, Quinn . . .’ Coddington had the decency to appear abashed, but only for a moment. He drew himself up and met Quinn’s incredulity with a defiant gaze. ‘I’m your new commanding officer.’

‘You? But . . .’ Quinn cast his mind back to Sir Edward’s first briefing on the case. The commissioner had been frankly derisive of the local CID’s conduct so far. Was it really possible that he had now placed the man responsible for that farce over him?

There could only be one explanation. The choice of Coddington for the job was Sir Edward’s way of ensuring that Quinn would retain effective control of the department. Quinn tried to suppress a smile.

Coddington took a few strides forward, possessing the room. The cramped attic could barely accommodate three men at the best of times, but with this new addition, Quinn felt the walls closing in on him. The swoop of the angled ceiling was like a guillotine blade. He almost ducked away from it.

‘Sir Edward called me himself this morning and told me to make my way directly over here.’ Coddington’s tone was complacent, as if all this was perfectly natural. ‘I have just come from his office now. He asked me to give you this.’

The envelope bore Quinn’s name. The letter inside was typewritten. So,
she
had seen his humiliation, had played her part in drafting it.

He scanned the lines, hunting for confirmation of his theory about Coddington’s appointment. He found some comfort. ‘I see that it is to be a temporary secondment. For the duration of the case.’

Coddington waved this aside. ‘What happens to the department afterwards will be reviewed at a later date.’ It seemed that as far as he was concerned, this allowed the possibility of his command being made permanent. Quinn could find nothing to corroborate that in Sir Edward’s letter. ‘It all depends on how the case turns out,’ continued Coddington. ‘If we are successful in bringing the killer to justice, then all well and good.’

‘And if we’re not?’ demanded Inchball.

‘This morning, in his meeting with me, Sir Edward raised the possibility of closing the department down.’

‘He can’t do that!’ cried Inchball.

‘Oh,
you
men needn’t worry,’ said Coddington to the two sergeants. ‘You will be absorbed back into the Met – the regular Met, I mean. You’ll be found posts at some station or other.’

‘What about Inspector Quinn?’ Macadam bridled defensively.

‘Sir Edward didn’t go into all the details.’ Coddington’s answer was ominously vague; he avoided looking at Quinn when he gave it. ‘None of that matters now. And none of it should be allowed to distract us from the task in hand, which is to track down Amélie’s murderer. That is our first priority.’

Quinn was not sure he liked the new tone of authority that Coddington was adopting. He seemed to have no awareness that he had been brought in as a straw man. Or, at the very worst, that he was being used as a stick to beat Quinn, in punishment for past misdemeanours.

‘Of course,’ continued Coddington, ‘Sir Edward was also explicit in his instructions to me that for the case to be considered successfully resolved we must ensure that no one else dies. And that includes whoever we finally apprehend for the crime. We must endeavour to bring him in alive. This time.’

‘And what if the killer strikes again?’ asked Quinn.

‘What makes you think he will?’

‘It has been known to happen. In my last case . . .’

‘If I were you, Inspector Quinn,’ DCI Coddington cut in sharply. There was a new steeliness to his tone; the esteem, or rather fawning admiration, that he had displayed towards Quinn the previous day was gone entirely. ‘I wouldn’t be so quick to bring up your last case. Sir Edward held it up to me as precisely the kind of disaster we must avoid.’ Coddington even allowed himself a vindictive smirk, or at least that’s what Quinn assumed the strange writhing of his moustache to be.

So that’s how it is
, thought Quinn.

‘Clearly it is vital that we apprehend the killer before he has a chance to strike again.’ Coddington took off his Ulster and hung it over Quinn’s almost identical garment, before finding a hook for his own bowler.

He settled himself behind Quinn’s desk, leafing idly through the papers that were lying there. ‘So, what have you discovered?’

The two sergeants looked to Quinn, signalling that they would take their lead from him. Quinn nodded calmly. The one thing he must not do was to let his true feelings show.

It was a question now of biding his time. He would let the situation play out and take his punishment like a man. Nothing had really changed. Coddington was still a fool, he was convinced of that. And that was the essential fact he had to hold on to. In all honesty, it was easier to deal with his out-and-out antagonism than his false admiration.

In the meantime, as Coddington had pointed out, the priority was to crack the case. On that they could agree. ‘We learnt from Edna Corbett, also known as Albertine, that the dead girl had an admirer. We believe this to be a young man who works at the House of Blackley in the Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances department – a certain Mr Spiggott. However, Mr Spiggott seems to have done a bunk, his disappearance coinciding with the news of Amélie’s death. Macadam, did you manage to get anywhere with the personnel department at Blackley’s?’

‘They had an address for his next of kin. His father, Alf Spiggott.’ Macadam consulted his notebook. ‘Seventy-three, Cornwall Street, North Lambeth. I presume you would like me to get round there, sir?’

Quinn began to answer but Coddington cut him off. ‘I’ll decide that, Macadam.’

They waited for his decision.

‘Yes, of course. Get round there. Talk to the father; see if he’s seen his son. The son may even be hiding out there. Arrest him. Bring him in. Get a confession.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Inchball.

Coddington’s moustache twitched uneasily. ‘What?’

‘Before it all kicked off yesterday, I had a chat with this feller, Davies, see. Spiggott’s chum. Well, nearest thing he has to a chum, I reckon. Davies said that Spiggott hates his old man. A complete wastrel, by the sounds of it. He might even have form. Petty thieving, fraud, that sort of thing. We ought to check with the local nick. Spiggott couldn’t wait to get out of the family home. His ma died some years ago, see. And Spiggott blamed his father.’

‘I see,’ said Coddington. ‘So it is unlikely that Spiggott would go to his father’s . . . There will be no need for you to follow up that lead, then, Sergeant Macadam.’

‘Although,’ began Quinn, ‘whatever a young man might say about his relations with his father, when he finds himself in a fix, blood is always thicker than water, is it not?’

‘So Macadam should go round there?’

‘On the face of it, that might be a good idea.’

‘Right,’ said Coddington decisively.

‘However,’ continued Quinn, ‘if the father is sheltering the son, he is hardly likely to give anything away to the police.’

‘We can get a warrant? Search the place.’

‘We don’t need a warrant, sir, given the extraordinary licence under which Special Crimes was instituted. That is to say, we have a de facto permanent open warrant, approved by the Home Secretary. Did Sir Edward not explain that to you?’

‘Now that you mention it, yes, I’m sure that he did. So we should get round there straight away?’

‘But I hardly think it likely that Spiggott will be holed up at his father’s house, do you, sir? Surely they’ll have found somewhere else to hide him?’

‘Well, what do you suggest, Quinn?’

‘One possibility is to ask the local CID to keep an eye on Spiggott’s father’s house. If Spiggott is hiding there, they may see something – perhaps a figure in the window when the old man is out. If Spiggott’s holed up somewhere else, someone – perhaps his father, or a sibling – will be supplying him with food and water.’