Elementary Murder Read online

  For a second it seemed that Kelly was about to launch himself at the policeman, but whether he was afraid of the criminal consequences of such a move, or he remembered why the policeman was standing there in the first place, he managed to control himself and said, ‘Just tell me where me son is, eh? Then I’ll go fetch him.’

  Jaggery shifted his stance. He reckoned it didn’t really matter one jot if the Kelly woman had run off or not. He’d come to give them the news and that was what he’d do. He’d given him the good – now it was time for the bad.

  Brennan decided there was little point in contacting the headmaster again to inform him of the boy Kelly’s situation. There was nothing he could do, save create a great fuss about having the boy arrested for attempted arson. No, it was better to let sleeping boys lie for the time being. Today was Friday, and Miss Rodley would doubtless inform him and the rest of the staff on Monday morning at school. So once he got back from the infirmary, he decided to sample an evening pint at the Crofter’s Arms before heading home. He sat in his usual corner, where he was assured of some degree of solitude, and took a long, slow draught.

  Before he could take a second swig, Constable Jaggery, now out of uniform and clearly in the mood for a drink, came in and made a beeline for Brennan. The expression on his sergeant’s face had no effect on Jaggery, who wanted to share the information about the Kelly woman as soon as he could.

  ‘And she didn’t say a word?’ Brennan asked when Jaggery had finished the tale.

  ‘No, Sergeant. She just ran off. Didn’t know what to make of it but I thought you should know.’

  Brennan took another sip. ‘You did the right thing, Constable.’

  ‘Thank God for that. I thought you might’ve expected me to run after the bitch.’

  ‘Not at all. There’s no warrant for her arrest, is there?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘Still, there must’ve been a reason for such strange behaviour.’

  ‘You can never tell wi’ women.’ Jaggery shook his head as if he were pondering an imponderable.

  ‘I wonder …’

  ‘Wonder what, Sergeant?’

  Brennan didn’t reply for a while, merely swirled the remaining beer around in his glass, watching it form tiny froth patterns around the rim. Finally, he said, ‘We know Mrs Kelly has already been visited by the police last week.’

  ‘Do we?’

  Brennan nodded. ‘She’d gone into school to complain to the headmaster about young Billy getting beaten.’

  ‘Little sod must’ve deserved it.’

  ‘Agreed. But she caused a scene, and it was reported by the head. Then a few days later Billy Kelly disappears. Possibly murdered like the Gadsworth girl and Tollet, the school inspector.’

  ‘Aye. I’m with you so far.’

  ‘She’s had several days now to scour the streets for her son. We know the boy’s father’s been up and down looking for him.’

  ‘As any dad would.’

  ‘So over the last week, who do you think she blames for him running away?’

  ‘But we thought the lad was dead.’

  ‘I know. But as far as she was concerned he’d run away because of the school. He’s done it before, remember?’

  Jaggery thought for a while as Brennan drained his glass. Then he said, with a note of triumph, ‘Well then, she’d blame the headmaster!’

  ‘Exactly!’

  But Jaggery’s elation at getting to the right answer was short-lived. ‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at though, Sergeant.’

  ‘This morning the headmaster was attacked in the street on his way to school by someone wielding a hammer.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And we imagined it was another attack by our murderer.’

  The light in Jaggery’s head finally hissed into life. It had taken a while, thought Brennan, not for the first time. It was like putting a match to a damp wick.

  ‘You mean you think Mrs Kelly was the one who attacked Weston?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘Why,’ said Jaggery as the flame started to flare, ‘that must be why the bitch ran off! She saw me uniform and thought, Bugger that.’

  ‘Well done, Constable. Now as reward for your impeccable exercise in logic, I’ll allow you to buy me another pint.’

  ‘A pleasure, Sergeant!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next morning – Saturday – Brennan was up early, knowing that it would be the best time to find the ones he wished to speak to.

  It had always struck him as fitting that the Salvation Army Hall was to be found in Hope Street. Indeed, the hall took its name from the street – Hope Hall – and he supposed that hope was what the Sally Ann brought to many of the town’s inhabitants. While not subscribing to their philosophy about drink – his family hailed from Tipperary, after all – he couldn’t doubt the sincerity of their mission and the support they offered to the ones who found themselves in need of a helping hand.

  The tall and imposing building stood facing Wigan Market Hall in the centre of town, and at that time of the morning there were several people making their way along Woodcock Street heading for the indoor stalls and the fresh produce to be had at this early part of the day. Saturday was a good day for the market, with the freshest produce going early, and the cheapest being sold off late on.

  He climbed up the steps of Hope Hall and saw that the door was half-open. He entered the cavernous building and saw small clusters of men in various states of dishevelment, each of them with a bowl of steaming broth in his hands. A Salvation Army soldier, who had been moving among the groups, saw Brennan standing in the entrance and made his way over.

  ‘Good morning, brother,’ he said with a dubious glance at Brennan’s clothing. ‘Do you need some sustenance?’

  ‘Actually, I need some information.’

  He introduced himself and explained the reason for his visit.

  ‘Please,’ said the soldier. ‘I think you need to speak with Sergeant Hammond. He’s the one who found the poor child. I’m just the one he bit.’

  Brennan blinked a few times, and was about to ask for an explanation, but the young soldier had already spun round and was leading the way to a room at the rear of the hall where he knocked on the door, opened it and spoke to the one inside. Then he stood to one side and waved Brennan into the room. There, seated behind a desk and writing into what appeared to be a ledger of accounts, was a stockily built man of middle age and sporting a large black beard, greying a little in places and reminding Brennan of paintings he had seen of Moses wielding the tablets of the Ten Commandments. An imposing figure.

  ‘Please. Take a seat. I’m told we share the same rank, Sergeant?’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Brennan sat opposite the man. He saw, ranged along the side of the desk and enclosed by metal bookends, a series of volumes, the most prominent of which carried the title In Darkest England and The Way Out.

  Sergeant Hammond gave a slight chuckle. ‘I see you are drawn to the general’s great work.’

  ‘The General?’

  ‘General William Booth. The founder of our humble organisation.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him, yes.’

  ‘You may find its title strange.’ Without warning he leant forward and plucked the book from its place in the row and flicked it open until he came to the page he was looking for. ‘Now then. This should explain things, Sergeant.’ He began to read aloud. ‘“As in Africa, it is all trees, trees, trees with no other world conceivable; so is it here – it is all vice and poverty and crime”.’

  He closed the book and stroked its dark leather cover. ‘But then, as a policeman in Wigan, you’ll immediately recognise the sentiments expressed here.’

  ‘It’s not quite as dark as you paint it,’ Brennan replied, feeling the need to offer some defence, at least, of his fellow Wiganers.

  As if in direct challenge to his visitor’s words, the man again picked up t
he book and chose another section.

  ‘“Darkest England has many more public houses than the forest of the Aruwimi has rivers”.’

  Brennan shifted in his seat. He hadn’t come for a lecture on drink. ‘I’m afraid I’ve never visited the forest of the Aruwimi, Sergeant Hammond. It’s much closer to home I’m interested in.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, closing the book and returning it to its slot on the desk. ‘It’s easy to get carried away. Now then. Concerning the young scamp.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Where exactly was it that he bit your colleague?’

  ‘On the left hand.’

  ‘My fault, Sergeant Hammond. I meant, where were you both when the assault took place?’

  ‘Oh I see.’ The man gave a huge grin, lighting up his features and making him seem at once much more affable. ‘Let me see. We were playing “I’m a Soldier Bound for Glory”. One of Richard Jukes’ finest, if I may say so. At any rate, once we’d finished we heard a tremendous crash that seemed to come from one of the derelict basements nearby. Myself and a colleague went to see if anyone needed help and there he was. The child covered in dust and appearing dazed and half-starved. Naturally we offered the boy assistance but he repaid the kindness by biting the soldier’s hand that was about to feed him.’ He indicated the closed door and the soldier Brennan had met.

  ‘Where was this basement?’

  ‘Let me think. Ah yes. It was St Thomas Street. The last house on the corner opposite St Thomas church. There’s a small row of them. All empty.’

  Brennan sat upright, as if someone had jabbed him with a sharp knife. ‘St Thomas Street? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am, Sergeant. Does it surprise you?’

  But Brennan had stood up and, after offering a hasty Thank you, left the room and the Salvation Army building.

  This is bloody embarrassing! he thought as he made his way back along Woodcock Street, passing the growing number of people heading for the indoor market.

  St Thomas Street was the next street to where he lived.

  He went alone, deciding that Constable Jaggery might well let it slip to all and sundry at the station that Sergeant Brennan lived not a stone’s throw from where the missing boy had probably been hiding. He could imagine him regaling the canteen:

  An’ the lad were there, right under his lordship’s bloody nose!

  When he got to St Thomas Street, he looked up at the church’s tall spire, and compared it with the one at St Catharine’s in Lorne Street on the other side of town, where Reverend Pearl was the incumbent. Here, the spire, with its cross above braving the elements, stood tall and erect, no deviation from the perpendicular here.

  He sought out the last house on the corner, as indicated by Sergeant Hammond, and when he found it his heart sank. The neighbouring houses were, as the Salvation Army man had told him, all empty – no possibility of questioning curious neighbours then – and the one he was interested in had no curtains, the glass of the windows so smeared with dust and grease that it was impossible to see inside. He looked over the railings and the rusted iron gate that led down to a small basement area, and saw the debris from where the boy had smashed his way out through the wall. He pushed the gate open and stepped carefully down the cracked stone steps and over the rotted plasterwork on the flagged floor. There was a door sunk into a recess in the wall. He tried the handle but it was locked.

  Then a voice from above shouted down, ‘If you’re after money you’re wastin’ your time. Buggered off months ago, they did.’

  He glanced up. A man, middle-aged and wearing a bowler hat cocked to one side, was leaning over. Through the railings, Brennan could see a smock that had once been white hanging below his waist, and he heard the impatient whinnying of a horse from the street above. He gave the door one last look before climbing back to street level and coming face-to-face with the man, whom he now recognised as a familiar sight – and a familiar smell – once he caught sight of the open cart which displayed the numerous varieties of fish the man usually hawked around town.

  ‘Whose house is it?’ he asked, deciding against offering him a handshake. He could see slivers of fish skin clinging to his fingers, and scales stuck to his smock where he’d continually wiped his hands.

  ‘Dunno the owner,’ he said with a shrug. ‘All’s I know is the ones who rented it did a moonlight months ago. Owed me a fair bit, too.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone round here recently?’

  The fish hawker shook his head. ‘Not seen, as such.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Heard things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Set off early t’other mornin’, get to Fleetwood, see?’ He turned and nodded towards the contents of his cart: already they were depleted, with smaller cuts of cod, plaice and herring laid out on what looked like a stretch of tarpaulin. ‘Anyroad, we’re trottin’ past this place an’ I heard somebody wailin’.’

  ‘A child?’

  ‘Aye. Could’ve been. All I know is, it gave Bessie yonder a scare.’ He pointed to his horse, whose head was now bobbing up and down. ‘I thought at first they were back, them as left. But when I got to the door there were no signs o’ life anywhere, no light, nothin’. An’ after I knocked the wailin’ stopped an’ I heard nowt else. But the place was in darkness. An’ what wi’ Bessie takin’ boggarts, well, I reckon what I heard wasn’t human at all.’

  ‘What do you mean? Like a ghost?’

  ‘Aye. You hear strange things in a mornin’. So I got back on me cart an’ we buggered off to Fleetwood.’

  With that, the man climbed on board, took up the reins and flicked his wrists. Bessie trotted off quickly, seemingly anxious to get away from the place.

  Brennan turned back to the house and went down the steps to the basement door. Ghost or no ghost, he’d get inside, even if he had to break the bloody door down. He glanced down at the gaping hole in the wall where the boy Kelly must have burst through, but he decided it was much too small a gap for him to squeeze through. Besides, he didn’t like the idea of getting his suit filthy and having to face Ellen with dust and God knows what else marring his appearance. So he placed a shoulder against the door and pushed hard. He heard the door jamb creak. The wood around the frame must be rotted, he thought, and stood back, pressing both hands against the lower wall behind him and launched his feet against the middle of the door. Both feet went crashing through, but as he withdrew them, his left calf tore itself on a jagged row of splinters, and the curse he let rip would have made Constable Jaggery blush.

  Still, as he stood up and examined the flesh – deep scratches that stung when he stroked a tentative finger along their uneven length – he realised it could have been far worse. What with the scar on his neck from shaving, and now this …

  Gingerly he stepped into the basement of the house, and found that it was nothing more than a cellar. The light from outside failed to penetrate here, and he was hard pushed to make out anything in the room. But he knew for certain one thing the cellar contained, even, thankfully, without seeing it.

  The place stank of human excrement.

  Carefully he moved forward into the cellar, peering down at the floor in the forlorn hope of seeing what he needed to avoid stepping in it. He took out a box of matches and lit one, but the light it gave off was weak and reached only a yard in front of him.

  If only I had a bullseye with me, he thought.

  Still, the matches were the best he could manage, so he moved the light around, catching sight of small mounds of excrement scattered around the floor. Somehow, now that he could see them, he felt a wave not of revulsion but of sorrow, and sympathy. The poor lad had spent some time here and, unless he had light, he must have been desperate indeed to stay in this place for any length of time. Then he saw a dried pool of vomit, and stepped carefully around it. He heard something, too. The skittering of tiny feet, and the high-pitched squeal of rats disturbed in their endeavours.

  This is where the lad was b
itten.

  He made a methodical search of the place. From the crunching sound his shoes made, he knew this had once been merely a coal cellar, and when he stooped low he did indeed see tiny fragments of coal glistening in the light. Built into the wall opposite the door he had smashed open lay another door, and this one too was locked. He frowned as a thought suddenly struck him. Quickly he retraced his steps back to the door he’d come through. There was sufficient light here from the street level above for him to examine the inside of the door, and in particular the lock mechanism. He looked at the keyhole, then at the area surrounding the door, meticulously picking at the wooden splinters that had dropped onto the floor inside the cellar and moving them to one side. But what he was looking for wasn’t there.

  The key.

  Which confirmed what he’d already suspected, that the boy wasn’t so much hiding in this place as being kept here against his will. There were no signs of him breaking into the cellar but every sign of him breaking out.

  Now who would want to keep a ten-year-old child prisoner?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The following Monday morning, Jane Rodley declared to the rest of the staff before school that young Billy Kelly had been found.

  ‘As in dead?’ asked Nathaniel Edgar.

  Several of them gave him a look that revealed how insensitive they regarded the question. Emily Mason, sitting in the corner and gazing through the window, gave him a venomous glance.

  ‘No, Nathaniel. Not dead.’ Jane paused and cleared her throat. ‘Although the doctors at Wigan Infirmary fear that may only be a matter of time.’ She told them what she knew – that the boy had been bitten by a rat and was suffering from fever. She and Reverend Pearl had called at the infirmary twice over the weekend to see how Billy Kelly was, only to be informed with what she deemed a pessimistic air that there had been no change in the boy’s condition.

  ‘How did you know he was at the infirmary in the first place?’ he asked.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I was with Reverend Pearl, who was visiting a sick parishioner. We saw the poor child then.’