A/N: This chapter contains scenes of violence, hence the "T rating" for the entire story.
Chapter 5
Foyle was thoughtful as he walked out the door and down the steps of the nondescript building on Bishopsgate after his meeting with Chief Constable James. He paused on the bottom step, looked up at the overcast sky, down along the street, and then set off in the direction of the hotel. The evening had turned cold, but Foyle was rarely bothered by cold and he was glad of the walk, which would give him time to mull over the new information he had received.
The Chief Constable had made no secret of the fact that he hadn't heard of Foyle, and wasn't overly impressed with his credentials, but because of London CID's recommendation, had no objection to his looking into the case – if he could do it without 'stirring up a hornet's nest.' Foyle had suggested that they get right down to reviewing the known facts, the members suspected of being involved, and the Chief's own theories. He asked whom, if anyone, the Chief had confided in regarding his suspicions; if any member of the force had initially come to him with accusations or evidence; and if there had been any apparent reaction subsequent to his awareness of the situation. He asked for full particulars on the murdered constable, a ten-year veteran who had been stabbed and his body dumped behind the police station.
Foyle had listened, taken notes, and sought clarification on dates, locations and personal histories of members. He laid out a large scale Ordnance Survey map and marked all locations that would figure in the investigation. When they concluded for the evening, having agreed to meet again in three days' time, James was coöperative and businesslike. The meeting had gone well.
Sauntering along the darkening street, Foyle decided that the Chief's unenthusiastic welcome was probably a reliable sign that he believed the corruption was confined to the lower ranks. If he had been keen in showing gratitude for the help it might indicate that he was anxious to divert notice away from someone he wanted to protect. But he had been very forthcoming, frank even, about all the men of his station. James had taken up the post as Chief Constable only the previous September, after the retirement of a well-liked man who had held the position for six years. However, that did not exclude the possibility that he had formed allegiances or enmities that could distort his judgement.
He turned south off Bishopsgate onto the narrower Tennant Street, full of people hurrying home mindful of the blackout rules, and just twenty paces along became conscious of a presence behind him. Without the slightest alteration in his pace he stepped off the pavement to cross the road, checked over his shoulder and spotted the man. He continued on, crossing Islington Row and, with the man still trailing him as he traveled southwest on Calthorpe Road, he entered a newsagent's where he purchased cigarettes and matches. As he went through the once familiar motions of lighting up, he gazed out of the as yet uncurtained window. The man passed by on the opposite side and Foyle noted a certain competence in the way he avoided looking towards the shop. He also noted the subtle signal made to an unseen accomplice who must be waiting on the near side of the road.
It was unlikely that the man had followed him to the meeting, but quite likely that he had followed the Chief Constable. This presented a number of scenarios to his mind – that the Chief Constable was unaware of being followed, which was intolerable; that the Chief Constable was quite aware of being followed and had chosen not to mention it to Foyle, which was intriguing; or that the Chief Constable was having Foyle followed for either benign or malignant reasons, which, either way, was concerning.
Foyle considered his options.
First he made an unobtrusive examination of his present location: undoubtedly the shop had a rear exit into a service lane, but that choice would eliminate the possibility of gaining data from his followers. As they were obliging enough to come forward so promptly, Foyle saw no reason to delay the active part of the investigation. In fact, he admitted to himself, he felt a restless sort of impatience to engage with his opponents.
He approached the shopkeeper.
"Look, I realise you're not keeping a left luggage depot here, but... need to stow this case until tomorrow. Can you help me out?"
He laid a five-pound note on his briefcase. The shopkeeper eyed him for a moment before asking matter-of-factly,
"How do I know there's not a bomb in it?"
Foyle opened the case and allowed him a glance at the contents.
"Just papers, you see. I'd hate to have to type these all again."
He locked the case and the proprietor pocketed the note. Foyle took a picture postcard of 'The Forge Mill, Redditch', out of a display, tore it jaggedly into two pieces and gave one to the man.
"Give the case to whoever brings you this other half. Most likely that'll be me, but it may be a young woman. There'll be another fiver for your trouble."
Foyle shut the shop's inner door and stooped to tuck the half-postcard into his sock before opening the outer blackout door. On the pavement he doubled back in the direction he'd come. The first man soon reappeared, strolling forty paces behind and still on the opposite side. He recognized the likely second man, who had turned out from a callbox just beyond the shop door, and was now loping along the road ahead of him. There was some jockeying for position as they rounded the western edge of the circus and Foyle found himself in the lead as they moved northwest up Harborne Road.
Only a few ordinary civilians remained on the street; a Home Guard patrol passed by and Foyle nodded at them, seemingly oblivious of the danger at his heels.
The second man hurried past him to loiter by a narrow lane up the street. To avoid the interception Foyle crossed the road obliquely, aiming for the door of a pub.
Luckily the place was crowded with workmen reluctant to make their way home for the evening, and he was able to take cover in the throng, lager in hand. Sure enough the two blundered in after him, looking about in an overconfident manner. He had a full five minutes to study them before they located his position.
The first man was tall, but Foyle had not realised how tall until he saw his head and shoulders drift past above the grey and brown sea of hats and caps. His companion dog-paddled beside him, bobbing up to look about as they made their way towards the bar. Foyle gave them nicknames as he watched their movements – Big Brum, after the Birmingham Council House clock tower, and Little Brum, although the second man was in fact close on six feet. Through the haze of cigarette smoke Foyle noted their features, mannerisms, clothing – to the extent that he could make them out in the crowd – as well as the fact that they seemed to know no one in the place.
Big Brum was older, close to Foyle's age, he reckoned, and carried himself with the residual military bearing of a veteran. His partner was not many years younger, but did not have the same air of command about him. If they had served together in the Great War, it was the taller man who had likely distinguished himself. Nonetheless, it was Little Brum who seemed to spot him first, turning his back, nudging his companion and jerking his head to alert him. But Big Brum clearly was the man in charge, at least judging by Little Brum's anxious expression as he repeatedly looked up to his companion for direction.
Foyle never shied away from the direct approach with suspects when he could calculate the likely outcome of such a tactic, but in this case there were too many variables: their motivation in following him had several possible goals – information, intimidation, or worse; the exact nature of the ongoing crime was not yet discovered, so their level of commitment to its success – the murder may have been an error – could not be determined; and, finally, the present location was not to his advantage.
He was content to observe them for the moment, and took a sip of his beer – not a drink he favoured under ordinary circumstances, associating it with his army mess days, but appropriate to his purpose now. As he stood leaning against a post with his glass resting on the half-wall, his attention was drawn to a hushed and earnest conversation amongst a trio of men at a table to his left.
"…So there's our Roy, with the great bloody locomotive on the Foden low loader parked on Prospect Road in front of his own house, shovelling the coal out of the tender, and 'is missus pushing barrow loads round to the coal hole!"
The listeners gave a short burst of laughter.
"When he come to the weighbridge the attendant couldn't explain it: after a journey of only twenty miles the lorry was a ton lighter. There was a hell of a to-do, the attendants at both ends swearin' up and down their weighbridge was correct and blamin' each other for the mistake on the ticket.
"But Roy got paid for the job – I mean, there was no disputing that he'd brought the locomotive up from Wolverhampton and delivered it to the works yard."
"And no one's tumbled to it?"
"Not yet, mate."
They all laughed again and knocked their beer glasses together.
Foyle stowed the tale away in his memory for future reference as another example of a crime of opportunity. He cast a glance over at his followers, standing together in a circle of darts watchers.
It became apparent that the men had no intention of confronting him amongst the crowd either, ...and he didn't like his chances with the two of them in a 'private' interview.
No, he'd learned enough to go on with. He would make his way to the hotel as quickly and cautiously as possible: Big Brum was not expecting him to make a run for it and he would lose them easily, he judged.
Having made his decision, Foyle swallowed the dregs of the half-pint and only then noticed the stub of a burning cigarette between his fingers. He had lit, and smoked to within an inch of the end, another cigarette – and he had done it unawares. Foyle had given up smoking years ago; in fact it was the year and the very month he had got his promotion to Inspector – the same month his friend McCrae, a year younger at twenty-nine, had finally succumbed to the ravages of the Ypres gas attack.
Foyle told himself that this was not the time for introspection.
He took a last drag, crushed the cigarette end in an ashtray and, as the two men were distracted by a dispute over the score in the darts game, pushed his way towards the exit.
He shut the inner door on the noise, warmth and light of the congenial public house, turned the handle of the outer door, and stepped down into pitch-blackness.
The cold night air and the complete dark were a shock. As his fingers slipped off the door handle behind him he was suddenly disoriented; there was not a shade or shadow to distinguish between solid brick, iron lampposts or open air. It was impossible to take a step in any direction.
His torch, he now recalled, was safe in his briefcase at the newsagent's shop.
As Sam's reproachful voice sounded in his head, he shut his eyes tight for as long as he dared wait. He counted off three minutes, four minutes, and another thirty seconds.
When he opened his eyes again there was, blessedly, some slight variation in the gloom. Still, as he moved slowly forward, he had to put out a hand as a precaution against unseen hazards. He knew the two men would soon emerge from the door that was only a dozen paces behind. Flight was no longer an option; he needed to position himself to the best advantage.
Foyle swore silently and cursed himself for not having taken the time to study the streetscape before he'd entered the pub. He really had no idea– but wait, yes; he did recall the narrow lane that Little Brum had been lurking near. Did it extend through to this side of the street? He vaguely thought it did, and so drifted to his right to walk close to the buildings, reaching his hand out to brush across the rough façade. He was tripped up once by a projecting step, but recovered, and had walked what seemed to him a full block, when his hand lost contact and felt only empty air. He moved backwards until he found the corner of the wall, felt his way around and along the side of the building for several yards and stopped to listen and to think.
Standing motionless, he became aware of an odd, dim sort of glow in the lower left quadrant of his vision, and with a start saw that he still wore the luminous armband Sam had fixed to his sleeve. He cursed again, tore it off and stuffed it deep into his pocket. Somehow the Blackout in Hastings had never seemed as black as this. Foyle breathed through his mouth, the better to hear surrounding noises, and was struck by the unnatural silence of the huge city – how could it be so damned quiet? Was the entire population on the qui vivre?
The old phrase from the last war, his war, resonated in his head, until another sound caught his attention. He heard what must be the pub door open and shut, and two pairs of boots on the pavement. He moved further on into the lane, towards a darker shape standing out from the wall and felt at waist-height the rough wood of a disused rubbish box. He made his way around and stood behind it. The footfalls were steady and unhesitating: they had a torch.
To preserve the meagre advantage of night vision that he possessed, Foyle squinted his eyes into slits and pulled his hat lower on his brow. As the steps grew louder, he steadied himself with his left hand on the wall, but then, on some inexplicable impulse, he took one more step back and his heel struck a discarded glass bottle. In the narrow lane the echo of its prolonged and uneven progress sounded like a timpani drumroll in his ears, concluding with a loud clink against the wall.
His heart sank and he dropped down into a crouch. The boots continued on. He raised his head to watch the circle of dull light from their shaded torch sweep by along the pavement and then pass beyond the entrance of the lane. Cautiously he rose up.
But they returned in a rush, striding purposefully down the lane towards him; Big Brum ripped the paper masking off the torch and directed the harsh beam full in his eyes, effectively blinding him. Foyle blocked the light with an upraised hand and peered beyond it to face the two men.
The first blow came from his right, landing square on his jaw and knocking him into the brick wall, but he stayed on his feet and braced his back against it. He saw a hand flash into the light and dodged the second blow. As the fist smashed into the wall beside his ear he launched himself forward to tackle the man, lifting him bodily with his shoulder across the lane and drove him against the opposite side, a solid crack signalling the impact of the man's head.
Foyle felt him drop like a dead weight but had no time to savour his triumph, for Big Brum jerked him back by his coat collar and threw him down to the ground. In the wavering flash of the torch he saw one large, heavy boot raised up; he rolled to avoid it, but it slammed into his side and he felt something snap sharply. He cried out from the shock, gasped for air, and lay still.
The torch's beam went over to the first man and dropped down as his mate squatted to help him.
"Ray? Ray? Get up, lad! Come on, gi' yer head a shake."
'Ray' groaned and flailed around, finding his bearings.
"Jeezuz, Stan, me effin' head. Why th'ell'd he 'atta do that? Gi' us an 'and."
The two men got up onto their feet and the torch was directed over to Foyle.
"I think yuv 'urt 'im."
"That was the plan."
"Is it enuf, then? Can we leave 'im?"
"Yeh."
"Should we ask 'is name?"
"It's no matter."
Foyle lay on his side watching the two pairs of boots walk away, but they halted when a motor sounded nearby on the street. Its hooded headlamps rolled slowly past and came to a stop. A door opened and shut and solitary footsteps approached. Foyle was not encouraged that his two attackers felt no need to flee the scene. Rather the opposite: Big Brum took a proprietary stance.
"We've taken care of this. You've no need to stop."
The third man, a dark figure beyond the torch's glare, stared down at him.
"This's 'im? Where's his case?"
"His case? Ray, where's 'is case?"
"Well, 'e 'ad it – but, s'truth! 'E never 'ad it in th'pub, did 'e, Stan? Christ, 'e must've ditched it somewhere."
"Ah, it were the shop. 'E went in with it and come out without." Stan admitted unhappily.
The man shouted aggressively at his companions,
"You 'aven't got his case, then? Bloody useless, this! Get 'im up on his feet."
"There's no need. We've taken care of it."
"Get 'im on 'is feet!"
Foyle braced for the wrench as Ray and Stan seized him under the arms and pulled him upright. He found himself facing the full beam of the torch again, unable to get a look at the face beyond it.
"Who're you, then?"
Foyle saw no disadvantage or danger, at this point, in giving his name – and there was no one they could threaten on his behalf. His speech was slurred a little from the punch to his jaw.
"Th' name's Foyle. I'm a p'lice officer. But I think you know that"
"Foyle?"
The man began to pat down his clothing and Foyle watched his hands closely; a gold ring flashed under his eyes and he made an effort to focus on it, noting its details.
Then the hand reached inside his jacket, pulled out his pocketbook and examined his warrant card under the torch. Foyle examined the links on his shirt cuffs, the knot and pattern of his necktie, and squinted over the light at the man's face.
"'Detective… Chief Superintendent…'" The man's voice faltered for an instant. Ray eased the grip on his arm and Stan stood a little straighter.
"Ah, from Hastings? Not even a London man!" He said to his companions with renewed bravado. "A big fish in a little pond. Well, Foyle, you're in a great effin' inland sea now, and comin' up 'ere was your first mistake."
He threw away the pocketbook and passed the torch to Big Brum.
"Keep it trained on 'im, Stan."
Without warning the man pulled his fist back and landed a hard jab at Foyle's nose, and a rapid follow-up to his eye. Ray was startled and let go of his arm, and Foyle was able to fall away from the second blow to lessen its force. Stan's hold remained firm.
"Hey-up, what'd ye wanna do that for, George? 'E's hurt enuf." Ray asked.
"Shut it! Mr. Foyle 'ere isn't put off yet. I don't think he's ready to go 'ome."
The torch dipped an inch and Stan took a step forward.
"No, George, we'll have no more o' that. It's not 'elpin'."
"It's not 'elpin' if all these bloody coppers are onto it. Either he's out of it for a fortnight or he's dead – either suits me, but it's got to be done."
Foyle turned his head to spit out blood and spoke up,
"Well, neither suits me. What's in a fortnight, George?"
"Bloody cheek!"
Foyle had gambled on the man losing his temper, and the other two flinched back in anticipation. With the chance of the moment Foyle was able to bring up his fists and get his own back, delivering a high right and then a left uppercut. Both punches connected in the darkness with the unseen figure before the others could react. Ray was first to move, grappling him around the middle and hauling him off sideways. Foyle managed to whirl round to land a solid blow to Ray's jaw before Stan again pulled him off and laid an arresting hand – that was the word for it, Foyle reflected – heavily upon his shoulder, pushed his back against the wall and seized his arm. Blinded again by Stan's torch, he decided to go quiet.
Ray came forward and grasped his other arm.
"Jeezuz, he's quick when he wants to be. All right, George?"
"Shut it, Ray! That's it, then! Hold 'im. He's too much effin' trouble."
Foyle could make out the man's hand reaching into an inner pocket and a knife blade flashing open. Breathing hard with rage, George thrust his face close into the light; he was almost a head taller and Foyle noted with satisfaction the results of his defiance – a bloodied nose and mouth – and studied the contorted features with interest.
George hissed at him,
"You should've stopped home with yer missus, Mr. Foyle. You'll not be seein' 'er again."
He felt the metal blade, unexpectedly warm from the man's breast pocket, pressed against his throat. Foyle met the man's eyes evenly, but a strange rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins and he asked provocatively,
"What's in a fortnight, George? Y'see, I've got to know where to meet you – the railyard? Or the munitions works?"
The blade jerked away as the man took a step back in shock.
"Christ, George, 'e knows!" Ray cried and backed away. "They all know –!"
"'E's bluffin' – 'e knows naught." Stan said matter-of-factly.
Foyle was beginning to like Stan.
"'E soon will, 'n all! I won't 'ave it!" George shouted in fear.
The knife came up fast from the darkness below; Stan put an arm out to block it, but the steel penetrated the layers of jacket, waistcoat and shirt and Foyle gasped as he felt it dig into the flesh of his already burning side. Two hands fought over the blade, one pushing it deeper, and the other pulling it back. Pinned against the wall, Foyle clenched his teeth and stifled a groan. The torch clattered onto the cobbles, the light snuffed out, and Stan won at last by shoving his shoulder against George.
"Take 'im off, Ray – gi' us a minute."
Ray dragged him further back into the darkness. Glass crunched under their feet and they were stopped by a gated wooden fence built across the lane. Ray held him firm against the boards, but Foyle didn't resist; he concentrated on the other men, two shadows struggling together and arguing over his fate. As Foyle listened to their voices he shut his eyes, not only from the pain, but also in an effort to regain his night vision.
Ray's grip relaxed as he fished out his own shaded torch, and strained to hear the verdict, but he felt his captive sinking down and put his arms out to support him.
Knowing he had his full attention, Foyle addressed him in a low, weary voice,
"Ray, don't let your brother destroy your life. Get out of this. You're cleverer than he is."
Taken aback, the man stared at him, frightened and slack-jawed.
"Stan wants out, doesn't he?"
Ray answered in a despairing whisper,
"'E never wanted in. It was Alan Cartwright convinced 'im–."
The sound of a vehicle driving slowly by on the street brought them all to attention; Stan pushed George against the wall.
"Bloody 'Ome Guard, George! Let's 'ave done wi' it and go!"
George readily agreed and hurried deeper into the lane, but he had his own idea of the meaning of 'have done with it.' Foyle could make out the murderous intention in his approach.
"'E's got to be put off!"
Both Ray and Foyle dodged the swing of his arm, but George attacked again, driving his fist into the side of Foyle's head, sending him crashing into the wooden gate. Foyle dropped to his knees on the glass-strewn cobbles. Before he recovered, George dragged him through the broken glass, hauled him up onto his feet and hit him hard in the stomach. Foyle doubled over, fell forward and stayed down, choking as he fought to suck air back into his lungs.
"That's enuf! Leave 'im be, now."
George circled around out of Stan's reach and brought his fist down onto Foyle's back. The knife's keenness was hampered by the thick wool coat, but still it cut all the way through before Stan's boot – Foyle assumed it was Stan's – kicked both blade and fist away. Foyle heard a body slam into the wooden fence.
"That's enuf! We'll not 'ave another death for this!"
Then Stan added helpfully,
"We'll move it up a se'ennight."
George obeyed the larger, stronger man who at last had raised his voice in a firm command, but declared bullishly,
"He'll not trouble us."
Stubbornness, pride or recklessness brought Foyle slowly, painfully up onto his feet again, and his steady stare, in the wavering torchlight, denied the man any sense of triumph or satisfaction – the beating was unimportant, while the close contact had betrayed a wealth of information beyond his opponent's comprehension.
George glowered back at him, weighing the chances of getting past Stan and knocking that defiance out of his eyes once and for all – but settled on an oath and a curse. The three turned and sauntered off, boots echoing in the silent lane. Ray cast one fearful, almost pleading glance back, as Foyle collapsed against the fence and allowed himself to sink to the ground.
He sat propped on the boards, one knee drawn up against his aching side, recovering his breath and fighting down the nausea from the blow to the stomach. He hadn't felt physical pain like this since – since the death of his wife…
No, it was nothing as bad as that.
Foyle reached into his coat for the packet of cigarettes, lit one and drew in the soothing smoke. He would lay himself down and 'bleed awhile, then rise to fight again,' he mused poetically, if somewhat ironically.
He felt the warm blood spreading and cooling over his shirt, and shivered with the sensation. Well, he might never rise at all if he did nothing to stop the bleeding…
After what seemed to him a vague and desultory series of thoughts – first deciding against a hospital, which would attract official notice and require an open inquiry, thus defeating his very purpose in coming here; then rejecting his chances with a private doctor because he had no contacts amongst the medical profession in this city and could not rely on a stranger's discretion – he determined that he would simply make his way the few blocks to the hotel and take care of it himself – with Sam's help if necessary.
Sam.
He hated the thought of involving her in this. It wasn't fitting for a young woman.
How long had he been gone?
He couldn't quite focus to see the time on his watch. However, his eyes had adapted to the dark enough that he thought he could navigate the streets. The clouds were breaking up and the sliver of moon would be of some help. A distant clock began tolling the hour, but he lost count of the strokes. He fished out a handkerchief, mopped the blood from his mouth and nose, re-folded and pressed the cloth firmly against the knife wound on his side, and struggled up onto his feet.
He found George's folding knife, its tip broken off, and pocketed it, then moved forward and stooped to pick up his warrant card, pocketbook, his hat and the smashed torch.
Somehow he avoided the patrolling Home Guard and got to the hotel, weak, exhausted, and nauseated from the sharp incessant stitch in his ribs. Once inside the blacked out front door, he found the lamplight excruciating to his eyes. The night duty clerk was away from his post; Foyle pulled himself slowly up the staircase, leaning heavily on the handrail, praying the clerk would not return and question him. In the hallway he stood at Sam's door a moment, but could not bring himself to wake her – it would be unfair and bothersome to give her such a fright.
He entered the bathroom, again painfully blinded when he hit the light switch, with the intention of cleaning off the blood and examining the damage. Instead he staggered off balance, fell hard against the washstand and, after suppressing an anguished cry, nearly vomited into the sink from the pain.
'Seems to be the theme for this case,' he thought cynically as he hung over the basin, gasping from the wrenching shock of the spasms. Something warm oozed across his back, and something wet trickled down his rib-cage under his shirt. He stared uncomprehending for a moment at the blood-soaked handkerchief still clutched in his fingers.
'Christ, it was better out in the cold air – the warmth of the room made him so tired…' He shook his head to try to clear it, feeling a distant sense of foreboding.
As the last of his strength drained from him, he pulled a towel from the rail; it was all he could do to make his way to his room and collapse onto the chair by the low-burning fire. Its faint heat minimally eased his discomfort, and it was enough for him to drift into a kind of disoriented half-consciousness that passed for sleep.
TBC...