Treachery at Lancaster Gate (23 page)

Neither was the following day a good one. He continued to look over records, finding even more discrepancies now that he was looking for them. There were figures that did not match, even a couple of statements that had been altered very carefully, very cleverly. He could feel his stomach knotting as he began to appreciate how deep the corruption ran.

He met with resistance everywhere, sometimes even open dislike. One constable fetched him a cup of tea and spilled it all over his jacket and trousers.

“Oh! Terribly sorry, sir!” he said, barely concealing his smile.

It was hot, almost hot enough to scald, if Tellman had not moved quickly enough to miss most of it.

There was a snigger of amusement from one of the other men, quickly changed into a cough, then another. The two other constables in the room also began to cough, as if in a chorus.

Tellman tried to make light of it, but he was sharply aware of how much worse it could have been. He was wet from the tea, and it would be very uncomfortable, not to mention embarrassing, when it got cold. It would be obvious, as if he had wet himself. Hotter, and it might have taken the skin off his belly. He forced the childhood memory out of his mind. It was unbearable. A wave of the old helplessness swept over him at the memory of the laughter, the mocking. He banished it. He was superior to all three of the men in this room. They were all pretending to be helpful when they were either guilty of changing evidence or stealing money themselves, or turning a blind eye to it.

Was his pretense not to know a mark of cowardice? They would smell fear. Bullies always did. How rash would it be to let them know he knew, face them? If he did not, was he then telling them he did not dare to?

What would Gracie think of him? What would he rather do? Face them and possibly be attacked? Or retreat, and be ashamed of himself, not be able to tell Gracie, in fact lie to her, even if only by omission?

“Don't worry about it, Constable,” he said. “It's unimportant.” He looked the man in the eye and saw a faint flush in his cheeks. “You seem to be afflicted with carelessness. You can't add your figures right either. There are some very odd mistakes here. Oddest thing about it is that it's always short! Never money over. Noticed that, did you?”

The constable's jaw hardened but there was fear in his eyes. “Can't say as I did,” he answered. “But when yer done a long day on the streets, ye're so tired yer can 'ardly see straight, an' yer feet 'urt something terrible, could be as figure work in't perfect.” He leaned forward a little too close to Tellman.

Tellman did not retreat.

“Yer ever done that, Inspector? I 'spec you did, way back when you were a constable, like? When yer dealt wi' people yerself, instead o' tellin' others to. When yer broke up the fights down by the dockside, or in the dark alleys where most folk got the sense not to go.” He cleared his throat and went on. “When yer knew that yer mates were be'ind yer? When yer'd bin in fights, got beat up, punched, sworn at, put on the ground an' kicked. An' yer never told on others, 'cos they was the ones as came an' got yer, risked their own necks ter see yer were all right!” He took a hissing breath. “An' when yer made a mistake, they picked up after yer, and kept their mouths shut. Yer know about that, do yer? Or 'ave yer forgot, like, now as yer don't do that anymore?”

Tellman felt cold right through to his bones, as if the chill came from inside himself. There was no point in saying anything to this man, was there? They both knew what was behind the argument. If you expect loyalty, then you give it…all the time. You don't pick and choose and give it only when it doesn't cost you.

But there was an anger in Tellman as well, a rage for what was happening to good and bad men alike. Above all, for him at least, there was the destruction of an ideal that mattered. It had been at the heart of his purpose since he was that boy in the school yard, humiliated and needing something to believe in, to drive him forward. To get him up again when he fell, made mistakes, was too tired to think clearly.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

For an instant there was pain in the constable's eyes, and then he smothered it. “Easy to say…” He forced the words through a tight jaw. “Got children ter feed, 'ave yer?”

Tellman wanted to lie, to protect his family; then he realized how pointless that was. Anybody could find out, in moments. Now he was really afraid.

“Yes, I have,” he answered, but his voice was shaking. “Why? Would you hurt them too, if I don't keep silent and cover for your thefts?”

The man paled. “God in 'eaven! Wot d'yer think I am?”

Tellman answered honestly. It was too late for lies. “A man who began honest, doing a job that's hard, at times dangerous, and gets paid too little, but who was obliged to realize that he depended on the loyalty of others. In your case that price was that you turned a blind eye to corruption…to petty theft, the occasional lie, lost evidence, sometimes more violence than was needed. Each step leads to the next one, until you're too far in to get out again.” Now the pain was clear in the man's face. “Tell me I'm wrong,” he went on. “Tell me this is what you want.” He hated saying it. “Tell me this is how you want your kids to see you: a man who dishonors his job, when it gets tough. That's what you want them to be too—when it's hard, too much trouble, then cheat.”

The constable's muscles tightened, stretching the fabric of his uniform, and his fists clenched. There was hatred in his eyes, at Tellman, for making him see and despise himself. He struggled for words, and found none.

“You raised the question of family,” Tellman added. “Did you think to threaten mine because someone has threatened yours?”

The man was breathing heavily, struggling with himself.

Tellman waited.

“No,” he said at last. “No, of course not. What the 'ell do yer think we are?”

“Caught,” Tellman said grimly. “All caught.”

The man let his breath out. “What yer going ter do, then?”

Tellman had given himself no time to think. He had to answer straightaway, or he would look weak, even stupid. “Give you the chance to put it right,” he replied. “Whicker knows. Special Branch knows. Kill me and you'll hang.”

“God! Wot's yer—” He stopped. He had not even imagined such a thing, and it was clear in his face.

Neither had Tellman thought of it when he began, but now it was too obvious to evade. In minutes he had moved away from petty theft, failure to report a stupid incident and have it dealt with, a disciplinary action a sergeant could have taken, a bad note on the man's record, maybe a stop of pay. Now they were talking of murder and the gallows. How the hell had he allowed this to go so far?

“You have a choice,” he said. “But you have to make it quickly. And I'll take a constable with me, from now on, so don't get any stupid ideas.”

The constable looked like a man who had been struck from behind and found himself on the floor, bruised and bleeding, without even knowing how it had happened.

When Tellman left that day and walked away from the station, he tried not to increase his speed. He must never let anyone see that he was afraid.

He reported both his findings and the exchange to Pitt, the latter not so much because Pitt needed to know, although he did, but for Tellman's own safety. And he would do as he had told them he would.

He was glad to see that Pitt appeared to be as distressed about it as he was himself. He had said that they must find the corruption, if it was there. He had even worn an expression as if he expected it, but now that it was real, it hurt him too. Disillusion was a deep and ineradicable pain, even if the beliefs had been unrealistic, taken for granted, and built to protect one's own dreams.

P
ITT WAS SENT FOR
by Bradshaw again. It was five o'clock, well after dark, and the lamplight glittered on frost as the hansom pulled to the side of the road. Pitt got out and paid his fare. He walked carefully across the ice-covered pavement and up the steps. His breath was visible for a moment, there and then gone again.

Upstairs in his office Bradshaw was waiting for him, standing by the window looking out at the lights of the city, the glittering reflections on the river. He turned as Pitt was shown in. He looked pale, drained not only of color but also of energy.

“Your man Tellman has been creating hell all over the place,” he said bitterly. “Have you thought one step ahead of what you're doing? Have you given the consequences even a moment's consideration?”

“He's not my man, sir,” Pitt reminded him. “He's regular police, and he hates doing this as much as any of us. But since the bombing at Lancaster Gate, there's no alternative.”

“Of course there are alternatives!” Bradshaw replied, but there was more desperation in his voice than anger. “Get whoever did it, and put an end to this…witch hunt! Ednam's dead. For God's sake, leave what's left of the man's reputation. For the police force's sake, and the man's family.”

“It's going to be very ugly.”

“Uglier than dead policemen all over the wreckage of a house, burning debris in the streets, and accusations of police corruption through half the city?” Bradshaw demanded. There was pain in his voice and in his eyes, and another thing: a shadow Pitt thought was fear.

“Yes, sir,” Pitt said quietly. “The injuries and deaths are unchangeable. The fires are out and the debris is cleared up. The accusations are only words, so far. With care, we can settle most of them without prosecutions.”

“We've got to prosecute whoever set those bombs!” Bradshaw slashed his hand in the air to emphasize the point and perhaps because he was so filled with unbearable tension that he needed some violent action to release even a little of it, just for a moment, before it built up again.

“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “I meant prosecution of police who have committed theft, embezzlement, perjury, and possible uncalled-for violence.”

Bradshaw closed his eyes and blasphemed under his breath.

“You can't prosecute dead men!” he retorted. “And so help me, Pitt, I'll have your job if you try. I have friends in high places too!”

Pitt did not resent the abuse, or even the threat. He could see that Bradshaw was a man at the end of his endurance. There seemed to be some deep and appalling pain beyond the revelation of corruption, one that he could not speak of. Why should he share it with Pitt anyway? They were not friends, were no more than professional acquaintances, and seldom met.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “And it will be public, as all court cases are, unless it involves spying and secrets that cannot be revealed for reasons of state.”

“Of course it would be public!” Bradshaw kept his voice under control only with difficulty. “Making it public is the most important part of it! People need to believe in the police, that we are efficient and powerful and will protect them from anarchists, lunatics, and random violence. Why the devil am I explaining this to you?”

Pitt felt his own muscles tightening, but the power of emotion in the other man outweighed his own. He breathed in and out slowly.

“Whoever it was had a reason, sir. The second bomb, which destroyed property but injured no one, makes it pretty clear that he intends to draw attention to something, and is prepared to go to any lengths at all to do it.”

“To the length of being hanged?” Bradshaw said with surprise.

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

There was a flicker of hope in the commissioner.

“Is he insane? Do you know that for certain?”

“If it is who I believe, then he is addicted to opium. Do you know anything about severe opium addiction, sir?”

Bradshaw's face drained of all color until he was ashen. For a moment Pitt thought he might actually faint. Then as Pitt took a step forward, Bradshaw straightened himself and seemed to regain his self-control.

“What…what are you talking about?” His voice wavered and for a moment hit a falsetto note. He cleared his throat. “Are you saying that one or more of our men is…addicted…to opium? I doubt very much that that…could be true.”

Pitt struggled to keep the conversation impersonal, as if he had not noticed Bradshaw's emotion.

“No, sir,” he said levelly. “But I think the man who set the bombs may be.”

“Opium addiction does not make a person violent, Pitt. I don't know where on earth you got that idea from. It's nonsense—dangerous nonsense. I would have thought that a man in your position would have been less…ignorant.” He almost spat the word. Then he seemed to regret it. “I'm sorry…that was…”

“I am aware of the causes of opium addiction,” Pitt spoke quickly, to rescue him. “In many cases it is medically prescribed, for severe pain. Some people can give it up easily enough when the pain is gone. Others can become addicted on a single dose. I mentioned it because I believe the bomber may be addicted, through no fault of his own.”

“It does not make people violent!” Bradshaw repeated intently, his face still almost bloodless.

Pitt's mind was whirling. Bradshaw spoke so passionately that there had to be someone he loved who had experienced addiction, or did so even now. A son, perhaps? Was he as damaged as Alexander Duncannon? It must be terrible for any parent, but for one in the police, who saw what it actually brought, not in nice clean words but in the reality of the flesh, the real pain, the nightmares and nausea, the fears and despair, it must be even worse—if anything could be!

What was the kindest thing he could do? Say he understood? He didn't, not in more than imagination. Or pretend he had not seen? Give the man an illusion of privacy?

He must answer.

“No, sir. I think it possible that this occurred because a friend of his was victim of police corruption, or so he thought. This friend, a fellow addict, was blamed for a crime our man was certain he had not committed, but on police testimony he was tried, convicted, and hanged. Our man has attempted since then to get the case reinvestigated, and no one will listen to him. At least this is his belief.”