blankets.”
“Ma’am.” The uniforms scurried off. Renwick stepped forward. “Miss...”
“Ms. Anna. Anna Mason. Mary’s aunt.” She half-rose; Renwick waved her back down. Where did Stakowski know her from? A uniform draped a blanket round the child; she flinched back from it, then settled.
“Detective Chief Inspector Renwick. Detective Sergeant Stakowski.”
He smiled at her. She smiled back, shy but genuine, folding a blanket round herself. Hazel eyes that never seemed to settle. “We’ve met.”
“You have?”
“The library, yesterday. You came in for a book. Myths of Old Lancashire .”
“Oh, aye.” Should’ve remembered. Getting old.
“It was the name I recognised,” she said. “Stakowski.”
He smiled. “No, not that common a name round here.”
“Polish?”
“Me Dad was. Came over here after the war, married a local lass. Anyroad–” He looked down at the kid. Red hair, blue eyes. “So, you’ll be Mary, then.”
The girl huddled closer to Anna. “Where’s Daddy?”
Stakowski’s radio crackled; he stepped aside. “Stakowski.”
“... arge...?” Tranter. “...opy?”
“Repeat. You’re breaking up.”
The static thinned. Other voices murmured, faintly, somewhere else. Then Tranter came through clearly. “Sarge?”
“Aye, lad. What’s up?”
“You might want to pop over here, Sarge.”
“Where’s ‘here’?”
“Shackleton Street.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s some pretty weird stuff here. Oh–”
“Aye?”
“–and two dead bodies.”
“Save the best till last. Be right over.”
THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE an here i was in the crazy house the nuthatch the lunatic asylum call it what ye like they called it a military hospital but i called it madhouse madhouse madhouse populated with the shudderin an the twitchin an the jerkin an the rigid an the mute an the screamin relics of shellshock aye an i were one of them my father a butcher by trade id worked in his shop afore the war when i wasnt in ma room a busily readin marx engels kropotkin readin an learnin an dreamin of a new world youd have thought id know better than to heed the call and march to war but there was a girl emma who lived a few streets away id known her since she was a scabby kneed bairn an time was wed been sweethearts an never a question but we would marry but now she was older an her mother had put airs an graces into her head told her i was no good enough for her an besides her mother was a patriotic fool lapped up all the jingoistic pish in the newspapers an drummed it into her daughters head till now she said she would na consider a man who shirked his duty as she called it so here was i twenty two years of age at the wars outbreak old enough to know better but still i signed up for the duration cursing myself all the while
L EFT ONTO F RANKLIN Street, then on up to Shackleton. Automatic pilot. He’d been called out to the bastard Polar in his beat days often enough: the domestic disturbance on Peary Street where the husband had waved a shotgun at him; the ginnel behind Amundsen Street where a boy had bled to death. Shackleton Street had been the worst; seemed it still was. The mist thickened as he drove. He turned the headlights on.
Blue lights flashed in the mist. He parked up behind the police cars. A big man sat in one, chafing his wrists and scowling. Tranter headed over. “Sarge.”
“Colin.”
Wayland followed, hands in his raincoat pockets, chewing gum. “Sarge.”
“Get your hands out your pockets, lad, you look like a flasher. That the dad?”
Tranter nodded. “Checked his ID.”
“Good work. Name?”
“Martyn Griffiths.”
“Right. So where are the bodies?”
“Upstairs.”
“And the ‘weird stuff’?”
“There’s a lot to choose from, but try this for starters.” Wayland held up two evidence bags. “Says he found them in the street.”
Stakowski turned the first one over. “A cloth cap? That’s not
“Ma’am.” The uniforms scurried off. Renwick stepped forward. “Miss...”
“Ms. Anna. Anna Mason. Mary’s aunt.” She half-rose; Renwick waved her back down. Where did Stakowski know her from? A uniform draped a blanket round the child; she flinched back from it, then settled.
“Detective Chief Inspector Renwick. Detective Sergeant Stakowski.”
He smiled at her. She smiled back, shy but genuine, folding a blanket round herself. Hazel eyes that never seemed to settle. “We’ve met.”
“You have?”
“The library, yesterday. You came in for a book. Myths of Old Lancashire .”
“Oh, aye.” Should’ve remembered. Getting old.
“It was the name I recognised,” she said. “Stakowski.”
He smiled. “No, not that common a name round here.”
“Polish?”
“Me Dad was. Came over here after the war, married a local lass. Anyroad–” He looked down at the kid. Red hair, blue eyes. “So, you’ll be Mary, then.”
The girl huddled closer to Anna. “Where’s Daddy?”
Stakowski’s radio crackled; he stepped aside. “Stakowski.”
“... arge...?” Tranter. “...opy?”
“Repeat. You’re breaking up.”
The static thinned. Other voices murmured, faintly, somewhere else. Then Tranter came through clearly. “Sarge?”
“Aye, lad. What’s up?”
“You might want to pop over here, Sarge.”
“Where’s ‘here’?”
“Shackleton Street.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s some pretty weird stuff here. Oh–”
“Aye?”
“–and two dead bodies.”
“Save the best till last. Be right over.”
THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE an here i was in the crazy house the nuthatch the lunatic asylum call it what ye like they called it a military hospital but i called it madhouse madhouse madhouse populated with the shudderin an the twitchin an the jerkin an the rigid an the mute an the screamin relics of shellshock aye an i were one of them my father a butcher by trade id worked in his shop afore the war when i wasnt in ma room a busily readin marx engels kropotkin readin an learnin an dreamin of a new world youd have thought id know better than to heed the call and march to war but there was a girl emma who lived a few streets away id known her since she was a scabby kneed bairn an time was wed been sweethearts an never a question but we would marry but now she was older an her mother had put airs an graces into her head told her i was no good enough for her an besides her mother was a patriotic fool lapped up all the jingoistic pish in the newspapers an drummed it into her daughters head till now she said she would na consider a man who shirked his duty as she called it so here was i twenty two years of age at the wars outbreak old enough to know better but still i signed up for the duration cursing myself all the while
L EFT ONTO F RANKLIN Street, then on up to Shackleton. Automatic pilot. He’d been called out to the bastard Polar in his beat days often enough: the domestic disturbance on Peary Street where the husband had waved a shotgun at him; the ginnel behind Amundsen Street where a boy had bled to death. Shackleton Street had been the worst; seemed it still was. The mist thickened as he drove. He turned the headlights on.
Blue lights flashed in the mist. He parked up behind the police cars. A big man sat in one, chafing his wrists and scowling. Tranter headed over. “Sarge.”
“Colin.”
Wayland followed, hands in his raincoat pockets, chewing gum. “Sarge.”
“Get your hands out your pockets, lad, you look like a flasher. That the dad?”
Tranter nodded. “Checked his ID.”
“Good work. Name?”
“Martyn Griffiths.”
“Right. So where are the bodies?”
“Upstairs.”
“And the ‘weird stuff’?”
“There’s a lot to choose from, but try this for starters.” Wayland held up two evidence bags. “Says he found them in the street.”
Stakowski turned the first one over. “A cloth cap? That’s not
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