Alex Grecian - The Yard

“Yes, sir?”

“Please find Mr Blacker.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, sir, I just saw Mr Blacker leavin’ by the back hall.”

“You are rarely mistaken, Sergeant. Do you think you can catch him?”

Kett smiled. “I’ll get ’im in here straightaway, sir.”

The door closed again. Sir Edward busied himself with the paperwork on his desk while Hammersmith and Day stood at awkward attention. Long minutes went by before they heard a knock at the office door. Sir Edward looked up from his papers.

“Yes?”

“Detective Blacker here, sir,” Blacker said. His voice was muffled by the closed door.

“Open the door, Mr Blacker. I’d like to be able to see you when you talk to me.”

The door cracked open and slowly swung on its hinges until there was enough room for Blacker to squeeze through. He moved sideways into the office as if he were being pulled along, a tired fish on a line. Sir Edward put on a patient face until Blacker had completely entered the room.

“I hope you move more swiftly in pursuit of your cases, Mr Blacker. Please close the door behind you and join your colleagues.”

Blacker did as ordered. He kept his eyes on the floor.

“Detective Blacker,” Sir Edward said, “do you know why I’m always right?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I never meant-”

“It’s because I have no left.”

Hammersmith averted his eyes from Sir Edward’s empty left sleeve. He looked at Day, but Day was staring at a spot near the ceiling, seemingly oblivious to what was happening. Hammersmith fixed his gaze upon the same spot.

“There was no disrespect intended, sir,” Blacker said.

“I still have both of my ears, Mr Blacker, and if you insist on circulating jokes about me, I will hear them.”

“Of course, sir.”

“So you knew that I would hear them?”

“I–I understand it now, sir.”

“You understand? So you must have imagined that the loss of my arm was a richly humorous affair for me.”

“No, sir.”

“You may relax, Mr Blacker. I do have a sense of humor, and it’s unlikely that you’ll invent a joke that I haven’t already heard.”

“Of course, sir.”

“In the future, if you insist on risking your career, at least come up with better jokes. Here’s what you’ll do: The next time you believe you’ve formulated a wonderful bon mot about me or about my missing arm, I want you to come to me immediately. You come straight here and tell it to me, and I’ll help you decide whether it’s funny enough or not. There’s no sense spreading a joke until you’ve refined it. We’ll work on these jokes together, you and I. Does that sound agreeable?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Of course you are. From all I’ve seen, you’re a good detective. Don’t let your personality get in the way of that.”

Blacker nodded at the floor.

“I hope you fully understand what I’m saying to you, Constable Blacker.”

Blacker looked up, his eyes wide, his mouth open. Sir Edward shook his head.

“What did I say? Did I call you Constable Blacker? My mistake, Inspector. Perhaps I was imagining a future conversation. I hope that conversation never happens.”

“It won’t, sir.”

“See that it doesn’t. Now, with that out of the way, let us discuss something more serious. How does the Little murder case progress?”

Hammersmith looked at Day, who was already looking at him. It was clear that neither wanted to be the first to speak. Hammersmith wasn’t easily embarrassed, but he felt some of Blacker’s humiliation and couldn’t figure out why Sir Edward had reprimanded Blacker in front of them. Surely Blacker would now feel uncomfortable around them, knowing what they had seen and heard. Of course, Blacker’s jokes about the one-armed police commissioner had been told behind Sir Edward’s back, in public. Perhaps Sir Edward had simply given shame for shame, making Blacker’s humiliation nearly as public as his own. He had spent years outside of England and away from the social norms that governed proper Victorian society. It was possible, Hammersmith thought, that the ways of Indian society were more direct.

“If none of you is willing to talk, I could select someone.”

Day cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“Sir, we do have some clues. You saw for yourself the demonstration of Dr Kingsley’s finger marks, and he discovered a great many of them on the trunks and the weapons that may have been used.”

“Yes. But that was yesterday and another police officer has been murdered since Dr Kingsley was in this office.” Sir Edward turned his attention from Day to Hammersmith. “I’ll be addressing the entire squad momentarily, but I wanted to talk to you three first. And especially you, Mr Hammersmith. I understand Colin Pringle was an especially close friend to you.”

“Yes, sir. We joined the force together.”

“If you need the day off…”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Keep your head in the game, then.”

“I will, sir.”

“Should I enquire about your appearance?”

Hammersmith looked down at his ensemble of dirt and sweat and blood and tattered fabric. He had fallen into bed the previous night and then rushed out upon hearing the news of Pringle’s death without taking the opportunity to change his uniform.

“Sir, I would prefer that you let me bathe and change my clothes first.”

“Very good. Now then, what of this Charles Shaw fellow? Was he involved somehow?”

“We don’t think so,” Day said.

“Is this the same Charles Shaw who visited me with a concern about you, Mr Hammersmith? Do you have any light to shed on this?”

“It was, sir. He won’t be visiting again.”

“He’s dead, then?”

“He is.”

“Murder or accident?”

“Murder, sir. Throat slashed almost to his backbone.”

“I see. Same person who killed Little and Pringle?”

“We don’t think so.”

“Sir,” Blacker said. It was the first time he’d spoken since Sir Edward had given him a dressing-down. “I respectfully disagree with my colleagues, Sir Edward.”

“You think Shaw’s death is related to the other two murders?”

“I’m not certain. But I’m suspicious of coincidences.”

Sir Edward nodded and leaned back in his chair. “As am I,” he said. “But I have experienced a great number of them anyway. What is the coincidence in play here?”

“We’re agreed that the same person killed both Little and Pringle. The methods are nearly identical.”

“Yes?”

“And we have three other murders, at least three, that are also similar to each other.”

“Are they similar to the murders of Little and Pringle?”

“No, they’re not. But I have trouble believing that there are two completely unrelated murderers at work in London who kill again and again, and seemingly at random.”

“Whether the killings are random or not remains to be seen. That fact is up to you men to discover, is it not?”

“It is, sir. But to kill in this sort of repeated pattern isn’t the work of any kind of murderer we’re used to seeing.”

“There was Jack.”

“Yes.”

“But we don’t think this is him, do we?”

“Right, sir,” Blacker said. “I mean, no, sir.”

Sir Edward almost smiled, but raked his fingers through his beard and scowled at the desk. “I think,” he said, “that Jack was the first of a new breed of killer. I think he opened a door to certain deranged possibilities and there will be more like him. These cases you’re currently pursuing may well be connected, but if they’re not-or even if they are-this department, the Yard itself, is going to have to adapt. We’re going to have to stop struggling against the idea of the mad killer and instead take steps to anticipate such a person. There are still patterns in the crimes they commit. We have to be able to see those patterns. I have great faith in you men, and I’m encouraged by the new techniques that Dr Kingsley and others are discovering.”