wasnât hurt, what the bloody hell was Blackstone doing dropping it?â
Iâll put in for a transfer the first thing in the morning
, the inspector promised himself.
âWhy did he drop it, sir?â he repeated innocently. âI expect that was because he didnât think that heâd be needing it any more.â
âYou think ⦠you think heâs done a runner with the money?â Brigham asked tremulously.
âItâs certainly looking that way, sir,â the inspector replied.
THREE
10th December 1916
H ad it not been for the steam hammer that was pounding away relentlessly in his head, Blackstone might almost have felt as if he was doing no more than slowly awakening from a deep sleep.
But just
where
was this slow awakening taking place? he wondered.
He was lying on something hard. That was indisputable â but it didnât get him very far.
The idea floated through his mind that he was in New York City, working on the case of a murdered stockbroker â the Wolf of Wall Street, theyâd called him â with Detective Sergeant Alex Meade â¦
No, that was years ago.
He was in the English trenches, on the Western Front, investigating the death of Lieutenant Fortesque â¦
That was closer â
much
closer than New York â but still some considerable time in the past.
The events of the previous evening slowly began to filter back into his aching brain.
The Western Dock â¦
A man who called himself Max and was proposing a deal quite unlike the one he had previously made with Brigham â¦
Blackstone had still not opened his eyes, but now he was becoming more aware of what was going on around him. There was the noise of cart wheels, bouncing off the cobbles. There was a buzz of conversation as people walked past him. And there was the strong smell â the stink â of whisky.
Now he did open his eyes. His vision was blurry at first, but as it began to clear, he saw that he was lying on a bench on the Victoria Embankment, not far from New Scotland Yard.
But how the hell had he got there?
He raised himself on one elbow â taking care not to roll off the bench â and observed two uniformed constables walking quickly (but warily) towards him.
Why should they be wary? he wondered fuzzily.
He had never worked with either of them directly, it was true, but he knew them well enough to exchange a greeting in passing, and â more importantly â they knew him.
As the constables drew closer, they separated, so that the taller one was now approaching him from one end of the bench, and the shorter from the other.
And still Blackstone couldnât work out what was wrong!
The taller constable came to a halt, three feet from the bench.
âWe donât want any trouble, now do we, sir?â he asked, in a soothing yet authoritative tone.
âTrouble?â Blackstone repeated, mystified â and was surprised at how weak and cracked his voice sounded.
âWhat Iâd like you to do now is get into a sitting position and hold your hands out in front of you,â the constable said.
âWhy should I do that?â Blackstone asked.
âSo that we can handcuff you, of course,â the constable replied.
Â
Blackstone was standing in front of Superintendent Brighamâs desk, still wearing the handcuffs. Behind the desk sat Superintendent Brigham himself and ex-Assistant Commissioner Todd.
Blackstone had crossed swords with Todd a number of times in the past. To be fair to him, he had never deliberately gone out of his way to make the Assistant Commissioner look like a fool, but since Todd undoubtedly
was
a fool, it might sometimes have seemed that way.
Now, the rumours buzzing around the Yard had it, Todd was dying of cancer, and looking at him, Blackstone had no doubts that the rumours were true.
Toddâs skin was yellow, and he had lost some control over the muscles in his cheeks. But though he probably
Iâll put in for a transfer the first thing in the morning
, the inspector promised himself.
âWhy did he drop it, sir?â he repeated innocently. âI expect that was because he didnât think that heâd be needing it any more.â
âYou think ⦠you think heâs done a runner with the money?â Brigham asked tremulously.
âItâs certainly looking that way, sir,â the inspector replied.
THREE
10th December 1916
H ad it not been for the steam hammer that was pounding away relentlessly in his head, Blackstone might almost have felt as if he was doing no more than slowly awakening from a deep sleep.
But just
where
was this slow awakening taking place? he wondered.
He was lying on something hard. That was indisputable â but it didnât get him very far.
The idea floated through his mind that he was in New York City, working on the case of a murdered stockbroker â the Wolf of Wall Street, theyâd called him â with Detective Sergeant Alex Meade â¦
No, that was years ago.
He was in the English trenches, on the Western Front, investigating the death of Lieutenant Fortesque â¦
That was closer â
much
closer than New York â but still some considerable time in the past.
The events of the previous evening slowly began to filter back into his aching brain.
The Western Dock â¦
A man who called himself Max and was proposing a deal quite unlike the one he had previously made with Brigham â¦
Blackstone had still not opened his eyes, but now he was becoming more aware of what was going on around him. There was the noise of cart wheels, bouncing off the cobbles. There was a buzz of conversation as people walked past him. And there was the strong smell â the stink â of whisky.
Now he did open his eyes. His vision was blurry at first, but as it began to clear, he saw that he was lying on a bench on the Victoria Embankment, not far from New Scotland Yard.
But how the hell had he got there?
He raised himself on one elbow â taking care not to roll off the bench â and observed two uniformed constables walking quickly (but warily) towards him.
Why should they be wary? he wondered fuzzily.
He had never worked with either of them directly, it was true, but he knew them well enough to exchange a greeting in passing, and â more importantly â they knew him.
As the constables drew closer, they separated, so that the taller one was now approaching him from one end of the bench, and the shorter from the other.
And still Blackstone couldnât work out what was wrong!
The taller constable came to a halt, three feet from the bench.
âWe donât want any trouble, now do we, sir?â he asked, in a soothing yet authoritative tone.
âTrouble?â Blackstone repeated, mystified â and was surprised at how weak and cracked his voice sounded.
âWhat Iâd like you to do now is get into a sitting position and hold your hands out in front of you,â the constable said.
âWhy should I do that?â Blackstone asked.
âSo that we can handcuff you, of course,â the constable replied.
Â
Blackstone was standing in front of Superintendent Brighamâs desk, still wearing the handcuffs. Behind the desk sat Superintendent Brigham himself and ex-Assistant Commissioner Todd.
Blackstone had crossed swords with Todd a number of times in the past. To be fair to him, he had never deliberately gone out of his way to make the Assistant Commissioner look like a fool, but since Todd undoubtedly
was
a fool, it might sometimes have seemed that way.
Now, the rumours buzzing around the Yard had it, Todd was dying of cancer, and looking at him, Blackstone had no doubts that the rumours were true.
Toddâs skin was yellow, and he had lost some control over the muscles in his cheeks. But though he probably
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