Striking Murder

  STRIKING MURDER

  A. J. WRIGHT

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY A. J. WRIGHT

  COPYRIGHT

  For my grandsons, whom I love beyond measure

  Olli, Harri and Freddie

  ‘Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burnt?’

  Proverbs 6.28

  ‘He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it’

  Ecclesiastes 2.8

  ‘When you strike at a king, you must kill him’

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  PROLOGUE

  Wigan, Lancashire 1893

  He thought he heard something and looked round.

  No one.

  His imagination, then. The hiss of the gas lamp, perhaps. Or something beast-like slouching from beyond the closed doors. Carefully he made his way along the terraced street, thankful for the snow, still falling, that kept them indoors. Yet he cursed the bitter chill of the night, and thought enviously of the place he had left. His only comfort was that this wouldn’t take long.

  He would make damned sure of that.

  As he passed each window he caught glimpses, through the threadbare fabric of the curtains, of what lay beyond: a man slumped in a chair, head bowed forward in an attitude of sleep; a filthy child tormenting an even filthier dog; a wife stirring an earthenware pot on the range beside a feeble fire.

  He smiled grimly. They had thought, if they could hold out until winter, he and the others would admit defeat and welcome them back with open arms. But winter was here, fierce and merciless, and it would keep them huddled close, like bears in a wintry cave, until they accepted the inevitable.

  He gave an involuntary grunt at the thought of what they would do to him if they knew he was here, in this street, and moved quickly on, towards his destination.

  Not far now.

  And this time, there would be no mistake. He would settle this thing between them once and for all.

  A few more yards, and the end was in sight. He saw the window and the shadow on the curtain.

  But then something else caught his eye. A dark figure ahead, waiting in the mouth of a small alleyway on the far side of the street. It reached out a dark, gloved hand and beckoned to him frantically, a furtive gesture veiled by a gasp of breath cloud. He heard his name hissed urgently. What the blazes?

  For a second he was afraid. And then, by the dim glow of a street lamp, he saw who it was, and his eyes narrowed in anger and confusion. ‘What the hellfire are you doing out here?’ he snarled, a feral whisper.

  The figure said nothing, merely retreated into the darkness of the alleyway.

  He glanced up and down the long terraced street. Not a soul.

  He muttered a curse and entered the alleyway.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Father Kevin Brady had never been what you might call a man of fancy. He had seen too many sudden or lingering deaths to believe in anything other than what lay before his eyes. Tonight, in a bitterly cold, cheerless room, he had been in the presence of yet another expiry, this time the lamentable drawing out of a bundle of wasted bones that had once flexed iron muscles deep underground. He had known the old collier for nigh on thirty years, had listened to his confession and shaken his head many times at the grey and sad ordinariness of sin. Yet the cold glaze in the collier’s eyes as he gripped his hand like a drowning man had confirmed for him once more the chill finality of that moment. Even the man’s last discernible utterance, that had brought spiritual solace to his wife, carried an ambiguity not lost on the old priest: ‘Jesus!’

  Now, as he made his way home, careful not to lose his footing on the thick, hard snow, he reached out to fumble against the chalky brickwork of the alleyway that ran at the back of the long row of terraced houses. His hand felt wet, and he remembered how, in summer, the walls often oozed slime, like pus from the crevices in the bricks, where the ordure from the pail closets beyond produced a sickly, rank-smelling dampness. From the muted stench all around him, he gathered the muck men were long overdue. It wasn’t a task he envied – especially in those hot summer months – and yet, with a wry smile, he reflected how, in the old debating classes he used to enjoy so much in the seminary, he’d have drawn some metaphysical link between the two callings of priest and muck man. Both deal with the filth of man, both get closer to it than they would like, and both help to clear the mess, leaving closet, or soul, clean once more.

  He stopped to wipe a smear of slime down his topcoat.

  The moon had long ago drifted behind thick cloud, and the subsequent gloom had settled on the place like a heavy shroud. Even the occasional screech from invisible windows a few yards away, as some marital dispute kept the combatants awake, seemed muffled, deadened by the density of an approaching storm.

  Not more snow, surely? He leant his shoulder against a wall and allowed himself the sad luxury of a sigh.

  ‘Father Brady’s here now,’ the old woman had said to the dying man, as if somehow he carried with him the mysticism of revival.

  He recalled the look in the children’s eyes, huddled in the furthest corner of the room, as far from the terror on the bed as they could get, yet fearful of what lay on the dark stairs beyond the door. Their eyes flickered with hope as they registered the white of his collar and the magic he performed every Sunday with a piece of bread and a goblet of wine. Perhaps, tonight, he could show them some more of that mystic art …

  Suddenly, an oil lamp flared above his head and brought him back to the present. He looked up, saw the looming shadows of a bedroom, the curtains drawn back so that he could catch some of the light from the lamp. A black, monstrous shape moved grotesquely along the bedroom wall, distorted even more by the swirls of ice that had laced themselves along the window. It stood upright, its elongated head held high. He recognised the attitude and smiled, hearing the faint sound of the piss rattling in the pot.

  Now, as he looked down the alleyway, thanks to the dim yellow cast by the lamp, he could see the curve in the wall that led to a narrow ginnel – the one he’d missed in the darkness.

  With a shivered nod of gratitude to the unknown source of light, he pushed himself from the wall, felt once more the slithering wetness of slime against his flat palm, and walked quickly towards the narrow gap that led to the terraced street.

  As he was emerging onto the long sweep of terraced houses, he heard something, a faint gnawing that somehow repulsed him. Then there was a skittering and a squeaking behind him. In the blackness of the narrow archway he had just traversed, he must have disturbed a nest of rats – all along the tunnel-like gap, there were obscure cancerous cavities in the walls, some as small as the palm of his hand, and others large enough for a grown man to hide in. Now, disturbed by his intrusion, it would take them a while to settle, and they could well spread themselves along the low channels below the kerbstones, slithering in and out of the mounded cobblestones looking for scraps of waste in the covering darkness.

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ he sai
d aloud.

  To his right, he saw the dull haze of a gas lamp. Slowly, he made his way down the deserted street, his bearings recovered now that he could see at least some signs of where he was. The uneven flagstones were treacherous, and he reached out to steady himself against the jagged sills of the houses.

  What time would it be now? He had arrived at the old miner’s home as the clock in the front room had struck twelve. That had been a good two hours ago. He reached the glare of the gas lamp and put his hand beneath his coat, to the small waistcoat pocket where he kept the fob watch his da had given him so many years ago, as a gift for entering the priesthood.

  It was as he pulled it out, and peered down to register the time, that he caught his breath. His right hand was wet, glistening in the light from above.

  A cold shiver ran down his spine.

  He remembered the slime on the alley wall.

  Since when has slime been red, Kevin? Sure an’ it isn’t slime at all.

  He swallowed hard, threw a horrified glance back the way he had come. In his mind he retraced his steps, back down the dark ginnel, left into the alleyway, a few yards further back – to a wall covered with blood.

  And he called to mind something else. Something he had heard.

  The gnawing of rats in the blackness.

  The gunshot cracked the crisp morning air, like a bone snapping.

  ‘That bugger’s mine!’

  ‘We’ll see then!’

  The two boys, no more than ten years old, hared off towards the bank of the canal, their heads held far back and their arms pumping the air like pistons. Some of the men turned from the pigeon shoot to watch them race across the field, their breath freezing in the grey air.

  ‘Little ’un, for a bob!’ one man shouted, raising his bowler to show himself in the crowd.

  ‘I’ll have yon lanky ’un!’ shouted another, who pushed past those beside him and shook hands with the first.

  ‘Done!’

  And so the wager was made. More of the men swivelled their gaze round, ignoring the rasp of the wooden slats, the laboured flap of pigeons’ wings and the next crack of gunshot, to watch the two youngsters race to the canal bank. Although their pace was slowed by the thick snow, they moved with all the eagerness of both youth and hunger, and, urged on by the ironic cheers of the spectators, the smaller of the two boys reached the bank first, where, with a wild whoop of victory, he hurled himself over the edge. The spectators heard the dull clang as his iron clogs landed on the thick ice.

  ‘It’s not done yet,’ yelled the supporter of the ‘lanky ’un’. ‘Not till he has it in his hand.’

  ‘’Course,’ said the other. The smile on his face held the confidence of a man about to become a shilling richer.

  The taller boy now leapt over the edge of the bank, and for a few seconds the tension among the watching men grew. Some coughed, some gave encouraging cries, and some even thought of breaking from the others and rushing over to see just what was happening. It was more entertaining than the pigeon shoot.

  Then an arm appeared above the bank’s edge. The taller boy was clambering up, and the cheering that greeted his appearance was quickly replaced by a communal groan when he pulled himself fully up onto the bank. Both hands were empty.

  Then, to his left, a small arm was thrust into the air, the hand clutching the dead pigeon, whose head flapped loosely to and fro in the boy’s excitement.

  ‘The little sod!’ the second man said. He took out a shilling and slammed it down into the upturned palm of the grinning victor.

  The men cheered as the small boy struggled to negotiate the steep bank, but eventually he made it, holding the dead pigeon close to his chest now.

  ‘I slurred too far,’ grumbled the taller boy. ‘Yon ice is bloody thick.’

  ‘That’s three of ’em I’ve got,’ said the other as they made their way back to the semicircular crowd watching the pigeon shoot.

  Another shot tore through the air.

  ‘Me mam’ll be pleased. Pigeon pie, eh?’ Tommy Haggerty pulled open his threadbare jacket and stuffed the bird close to his chest, along with the others he had already bagged.

  The sideshow over, the men turned to the real business of the morning, and watched impatiently as the two armed combatants continued with the pigeon shoot. There had already been too many grumbles about the unfairness of the day’s competition – pigeons’ wings tended to freeze in the cold air, and when they flew from the boxes their flight was slow and laboured, rendering them the easiest of targets against the white roofs of the nearby streets and the grey skies beyond.

  ‘A blind man wi’ palsy could get fifteen out o’ fifteen in this bloody weather!’ one disgruntled spectator had observed.

  Tommy, content with his haul for the day, ignored the communal gloom of the men, bade a cocky farewell to the taller boy and walked quickly through the mounds of snow to the main road. He tried to picture the smile on his mam’s face as he pulled out the three birds, one after another, just like the clown they’d seen at the circus last summer.

  Before the strike.

  Tommy skipped past the crowd huddled outside the entrance to the alleyway. He barely noticed the two policemen in their great coats and helmets standing on guard, rubbing their hands furiously, and keeping the more curious away from the alley. He felt the still-warm feathers of the birds safely tucked away inside his jacket. Pigeon pie. His favourite.

  ‘Mam!’ he yelled as he burst through the front door. ‘Mam! Guess what I got!’

  Silence. Only the tumble of glowing coals settling in the grate, sparks soaring upwards in a crazy spiral as they caught the draught from the closing door. He ran into the kitchen, but she wasn’t there, either. Now where could she be?

  He shook the question from his head, pulled out the pigeons and laid them carefully on the kitchen table. She’d only be next door, or next door but one. When she eventually did walk through the door, the birds would be the first things she would see. He stroked them as if they were merely sleeping, smoothing out the feathers to cover the tiny holes where the shot had entered, and sat on the chair, swinging his pale, scuffed legs and sitting on his hands to ward off the chill.

  Hurry up, Mam.

  Michael Brennan sat at the kitchen table, warming his hands on a mug of strong tea while his wife, Ellen, swept away the crumbs that were left from breakfast. She glanced at him and smiled with just a hint of censure as their five-year-old son, Barry, stared in wonder at the frosted art on the kitchen window.

  It had been in the early hours when he had walked into their room complaining of the cold and rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Why are you fightin’?’ he had asked.

  ‘We’re not fightin’.’

  His dad’s voice had sounded strange in the dark.

  ‘You was. I ’eard me mam cryin’.’

  Then he’d heard his mam giggle and knew she was all right now.

  ‘Come on, buggerlugs,’ said his dad. ‘Hop in.’

  Now, Brennan took a sip of tea and gave a grunt of pleasure, wiping the moisture from his thick moustache.

  ‘Can we go to the park today?’ the child asked.

  Ellen Brennan turned from the sink and frowned. ‘It’s bitter. Best build up that fire and stay in. We’ve enough coal for that, at any rate.’

  ‘Dad?’

  Brennan looked across at those sparkling blue eyes. ‘Well, I reckon if we wrap up properly …’

  Ellen wiped her hands on the tea cloth. ‘And if he catches a chill you’ll be up all night damping his brow no doubt.’ Her tone belied the rebuke in the words.

  Barry clamped his hands together, his usual display of delight.

  The harsh knock on the front door froze his smile. Knocks like that took his dad away from him.

  ‘Who on earth?’ Ellen gave her husband a sharp look, as if somehow he had orchestrated both the promise and its imminent breach.

  Brennan rose, ruffled his son’s shock of hair, and went to the fr
ont door. A large uniformed constable stood on the pavement, his helmet clutched to his breast as if fully expecting to be invited in. The red flush on his cheeks suggested an urgency that made Brennan’s heart lurch.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Beg pardon, Sergeant. Only you’re needed, like.’

  Brennan could feel his son’s disappointed gaze between his broad shoulder blades.

  ‘I’m not on shift, Constable Jaggery. Or don’t you check the duty roster?’

  The constable shifted uneasily and looked down at his boots, at the scuffed snow stubbornly refusing to melt. ‘I did, sir. Only it’s Captain Bell hisself, like.’

  Brennan frowned. ‘Well come in, Constable. Come in. You’re turning the whole house into a meat safe!’

  Once inside the Wigan Borough Police Station, Detective Sergeant Michael Brennan removed the thick woollen muffler and his greatcoat, thrust them unceremoniously into the arms of Constable Jaggery, and made his way past the duty desk, where a uniformed sergeant was busy scribbling something into a heavy ledger.

  ‘His lordship’s in his office, Michael,’ he said without raising his head.

  Brennan saw his mouth twitch in scorn.

  ‘Looks like he’s had his arse stung an’ all.’

  Brennan smiled, more in acknowledgement of the lurid image that flashed in his head than in any sense of anticipation at meeting the chief constable.

  Captain Bell was one of those men who rarely smiled. When he did it was usually the harbinger of something singularly unpleasant. He had spent many years in the army, and had seen service in what might be regarded as the social extremities of the Empire, India and Ireland. As an ex-military man, he had brought a rugged efficiency and respect for uniform to the police force. It was therefore beyond doubt that he took his duties seriously, and had a genuine belief in the efficacy of policing and the almost biblical necessity for the rigour of punishment; but somehow, in his steadfast pursuit of a social and moral rectitude, he seemed to have lost something on the way – a warmth, a softness, a humanity. Some wag had once described him as possessing all the flexibility of a narrow gauge tramline.