“There’s one more,” I blurt.
As I fish out my mobile, a hiss of static announces Lucinda on the tape. “Just to say I’ll see you later,” she says. “Looking forward to our bath.”
“Not that,” I interrupt or try to. Though I’ve no reason to feel guilty, the message and especially its continuation were just between us. I brush against Maddock’s unexpectedly rubbery torso as I poke the rewind key. “He’s here,” I say, brandishing the mobile.
The room feels not just crowded but humid, and I retreat into the corridor before bringing up my messages and switching the phone to loudspeaker mode. The policemen don’tblink as my father shouts over the thunder of the train and is cut off by the clink of the brick. “That all?” says Maddock.
“Tried calling him?” Wrigley contributes.
“Of course I have, but I can never get through. I take it you have, tried, I mean.”
“We’ve got his number sure enough.” As I pocket the mobile Wrigley says “If that’s the latest we didn’t need to come all this way. You could of brought it in.”
“What about the first one? He might have told whoever he was speaking to where he was going next.”
“You don’t know where he was to start with.”
“It was somewhere he wasn’t meant to cycle, and he was looking at bones or stones. That sounds like a graveyard to me.”
“Shouldn’t have been cycling,” says Maddock.
“I know that. He said so himself.” Frustration drives me to plead “It’s worth seeing if I’m right, isn’t it?”
As if at a signal I fail to identify, they lift their tankards to their large loose mouths, and I can only assume they resent advice about their methods. They gulp the rest of the water and thrust the tankards at me. “Tell your ma you’re waiting to hear,” Wrigley says.
Is he warning me not to attempt any investigations of my own? If I hadn’t been considering it in the light of their behaviour, I certainly am now. “You can see yourselves out, can you?” I say to regain some authority.
“We can do a lot more than that,” Maddock says. They leave me with a stare each, and he leads their heavy way to the door. I stand in my doorway until the backs of their almost neckless heads have jerked down out of sight, and then I follow the damp trail to the bathroom. I have to give my tour, and then I’ll decide where to search.
Chapter Thirteen
A NOTHER I NTERRUPTED T OUR
Of the people scattered on or around the steps that lead up to Queen Victoria—tourists, office workers taking a late lunch, lawyers or their clients due in court across the square—just two advance to greet the sight of my peaked Pool of Life cap. They’re Moira Shea and her male companion. “What have you been doing to yourself?” she cries.
Even if I could bear to pull the peaked cap down, it wouldn’t hide all of the bruise on my forehead. “Knocked down in the street,” I tell her, suppressing the rest of the memory or rather spending time with it inside my head. “It was just about where someone brought up the atrocities.”
“You don’t mean all that Ripper stuff again,” says her companion.
“Some of us like it, Gerry. You ignore him.”
Is the advice for me or about me? “Not the Ripper, no,” I say. “Frog Lane. You’ll remember somebody mentioned that business.”
“That was you,” Gerry says as if he wants to laugh. “You said it was Whitechapel.”
“Not the place, the atrocities. Did you see who that was?”
They gaze at me until I fancy that’s their answer, and then Gerry says “It couldn’t have been your dad. He wasn’t with us then.”
“Is he going to be now?”
“I wish he was,” I say too fervently for grammar. “We don’t know where he is.”
“I expect he can get a long way,” Moira says, “on that bike of his.”
“So you didn’t see who mentioned the atrocities,” I say and raise my voice. “Anybody else for Pool of Life?”
Two people step forward—considerably
As I fish out my mobile, a hiss of static announces Lucinda on the tape. “Just to say I’ll see you later,” she says. “Looking forward to our bath.”
“Not that,” I interrupt or try to. Though I’ve no reason to feel guilty, the message and especially its continuation were just between us. I brush against Maddock’s unexpectedly rubbery torso as I poke the rewind key. “He’s here,” I say, brandishing the mobile.
The room feels not just crowded but humid, and I retreat into the corridor before bringing up my messages and switching the phone to loudspeaker mode. The policemen don’tblink as my father shouts over the thunder of the train and is cut off by the clink of the brick. “That all?” says Maddock.
“Tried calling him?” Wrigley contributes.
“Of course I have, but I can never get through. I take it you have, tried, I mean.”
“We’ve got his number sure enough.” As I pocket the mobile Wrigley says “If that’s the latest we didn’t need to come all this way. You could of brought it in.”
“What about the first one? He might have told whoever he was speaking to where he was going next.”
“You don’t know where he was to start with.”
“It was somewhere he wasn’t meant to cycle, and he was looking at bones or stones. That sounds like a graveyard to me.”
“Shouldn’t have been cycling,” says Maddock.
“I know that. He said so himself.” Frustration drives me to plead “It’s worth seeing if I’m right, isn’t it?”
As if at a signal I fail to identify, they lift their tankards to their large loose mouths, and I can only assume they resent advice about their methods. They gulp the rest of the water and thrust the tankards at me. “Tell your ma you’re waiting to hear,” Wrigley says.
Is he warning me not to attempt any investigations of my own? If I hadn’t been considering it in the light of their behaviour, I certainly am now. “You can see yourselves out, can you?” I say to regain some authority.
“We can do a lot more than that,” Maddock says. They leave me with a stare each, and he leads their heavy way to the door. I stand in my doorway until the backs of their almost neckless heads have jerked down out of sight, and then I follow the damp trail to the bathroom. I have to give my tour, and then I’ll decide where to search.
Chapter Thirteen
A NOTHER I NTERRUPTED T OUR
Of the people scattered on or around the steps that lead up to Queen Victoria—tourists, office workers taking a late lunch, lawyers or their clients due in court across the square—just two advance to greet the sight of my peaked Pool of Life cap. They’re Moira Shea and her male companion. “What have you been doing to yourself?” she cries.
Even if I could bear to pull the peaked cap down, it wouldn’t hide all of the bruise on my forehead. “Knocked down in the street,” I tell her, suppressing the rest of the memory or rather spending time with it inside my head. “It was just about where someone brought up the atrocities.”
“You don’t mean all that Ripper stuff again,” says her companion.
“Some of us like it, Gerry. You ignore him.”
Is the advice for me or about me? “Not the Ripper, no,” I say. “Frog Lane. You’ll remember somebody mentioned that business.”
“That was you,” Gerry says as if he wants to laugh. “You said it was Whitechapel.”
“Not the place, the atrocities. Did you see who that was?”
They gaze at me until I fancy that’s their answer, and then Gerry says “It couldn’t have been your dad. He wasn’t with us then.”
“Is he going to be now?”
“I wish he was,” I say too fervently for grammar. “We don’t know where he is.”
“I expect he can get a long way,” Moira says, “on that bike of his.”
“So you didn’t see who mentioned the atrocities,” I say and raise my voice. “Anybody else for Pool of Life?”
Two people step forward—considerably
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