Neame, sir,’ Caine said. ‘In 1874. Do you want to have a wander round in here? There are plenty of blades.’
Mallory was peering at what looked like a pirate’s cutlass. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘You go ahead with DC Wolfe.’
I followed the curator through a doorway with no door.
‘I heard they might open this place up,’ I said, filling the silence.
He stopped to look at me sharply. ‘Open it up?’
‘To the public,’ I said. ‘To raise money.’
‘The public?’ he said with some distaste, as if it was the public who were largely responsible for the human misery on display in Room 101. ‘Who wants to open it up to the public?’
‘The council,’ I said, wishing I had kept my cakehole shut.
‘Over their dead bodies,’ said Sergeant Caine.
‘Don’t you mean—’
‘I know whose bodies I mean,’ he said. Then he clapped his hands, his mood brightening as he gave me an evil grin. ‘Not one of those queasy types, are you? Let me know if you’re going to bring up your Weetabix.’
‘I’ve been here before,’ I said. ‘A Crime Academy visit.’
‘Ah, an expert. An old hand. Let’s see how much of an expert you are, sonny.’ He picked up a walking stick. ‘What does this look like?’
‘A sword,’ I guessed. ‘A sword disguised as a walking stick.’
Sergeant Caine smiled. ‘Clever boy.’ He pulled apart the walking stick to reveal twelve inches of gleaming Sheffield steel. Then closed it up again.
‘So if I came at you . . .’
He swung the stick towards my face. I caught it with both hands.
‘I would grab it before you had a chance to use it as a sword,’ I said, twisting my grip and pulling the walking stick from his hand.
I allowed myself a small smile that immediately faded when I saw that he was still holding the handle. It was a handgun.
‘Which would leave me with nothing but my firearm,’ he said, pointing it at my face. ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead.’
‘Does it work?’ I asked, handing him the walking stick.
‘Oh, they all work,’ Caine said. He carefully attached the walking stick to the handle. ‘That’s the point.’
Mallory came into the room.
‘See anything you fancy, sir?’ Caine asked.
Mallory shook his head.
‘Probably here somewhere,’ the curator said cheerfully.
You would think so. The Black Museum contains every murder weapon you can imagine and plenty more that you can’t. More than a hundred years’ worth of explosives, firearms and poison. And every item in there has seen active service.
On the counter in front of me was a cutlass used by the Kray brothers. Next door was a rocket launcher used by the IRA. At first I thought Caine had a mini-kitchen in here, but it turned out to be the cooking pot where serial killer Dennis Nilsen boiled the meat off his victims before pouring it down the drains. And there were more knives than I had seen in the basement of West End Central.
The Black Museum was spread over several large, neat rooms full of glass display cases and exhibits and shelves with the facemasks of men who stole lives. Blank, ordinary, banal-looking men who shot, poisoned, stabbed, chopped up, boiled and ate their victims. All these pathetic little men who had abruptly aborted the happiness of countless lifetimes, all these savage creeps who had built a mountain of human misery.
Yes, I had been here before.
But this time was different.
Now I was not with my peers.
There was no hiding in a crowd, and no easy laughter to relieve the tension. This did not feel like a school trip. This time the Black Museum confronted me with all its horror, and its collection of human cruelty, and it was just too much for me.
Or perhaps it was something else. The first time I had been here, on that visit with the Crime Academy, I was a cocky unmarried kid who knew nothing about loss. And now I knew.
First came the sweat, and then suddenly I was crouching over a wastepaper basket, quietly being sick. Mallory and Sergeant Caine came
Mallory was peering at what looked like a pirate’s cutlass. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘You go ahead with DC Wolfe.’
I followed the curator through a doorway with no door.
‘I heard they might open this place up,’ I said, filling the silence.
He stopped to look at me sharply. ‘Open it up?’
‘To the public,’ I said. ‘To raise money.’
‘The public?’ he said with some distaste, as if it was the public who were largely responsible for the human misery on display in Room 101. ‘Who wants to open it up to the public?’
‘The council,’ I said, wishing I had kept my cakehole shut.
‘Over their dead bodies,’ said Sergeant Caine.
‘Don’t you mean—’
‘I know whose bodies I mean,’ he said. Then he clapped his hands, his mood brightening as he gave me an evil grin. ‘Not one of those queasy types, are you? Let me know if you’re going to bring up your Weetabix.’
‘I’ve been here before,’ I said. ‘A Crime Academy visit.’
‘Ah, an expert. An old hand. Let’s see how much of an expert you are, sonny.’ He picked up a walking stick. ‘What does this look like?’
‘A sword,’ I guessed. ‘A sword disguised as a walking stick.’
Sergeant Caine smiled. ‘Clever boy.’ He pulled apart the walking stick to reveal twelve inches of gleaming Sheffield steel. Then closed it up again.
‘So if I came at you . . .’
He swung the stick towards my face. I caught it with both hands.
‘I would grab it before you had a chance to use it as a sword,’ I said, twisting my grip and pulling the walking stick from his hand.
I allowed myself a small smile that immediately faded when I saw that he was still holding the handle. It was a handgun.
‘Which would leave me with nothing but my firearm,’ he said, pointing it at my face. ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead.’
‘Does it work?’ I asked, handing him the walking stick.
‘Oh, they all work,’ Caine said. He carefully attached the walking stick to the handle. ‘That’s the point.’
Mallory came into the room.
‘See anything you fancy, sir?’ Caine asked.
Mallory shook his head.
‘Probably here somewhere,’ the curator said cheerfully.
You would think so. The Black Museum contains every murder weapon you can imagine and plenty more that you can’t. More than a hundred years’ worth of explosives, firearms and poison. And every item in there has seen active service.
On the counter in front of me was a cutlass used by the Kray brothers. Next door was a rocket launcher used by the IRA. At first I thought Caine had a mini-kitchen in here, but it turned out to be the cooking pot where serial killer Dennis Nilsen boiled the meat off his victims before pouring it down the drains. And there were more knives than I had seen in the basement of West End Central.
The Black Museum was spread over several large, neat rooms full of glass display cases and exhibits and shelves with the facemasks of men who stole lives. Blank, ordinary, banal-looking men who shot, poisoned, stabbed, chopped up, boiled and ate their victims. All these pathetic little men who had abruptly aborted the happiness of countless lifetimes, all these savage creeps who had built a mountain of human misery.
Yes, I had been here before.
But this time was different.
Now I was not with my peers.
There was no hiding in a crowd, and no easy laughter to relieve the tension. This did not feel like a school trip. This time the Black Museum confronted me with all its horror, and its collection of human cruelty, and it was just too much for me.
Or perhaps it was something else. The first time I had been here, on that visit with the Crime Academy, I was a cocky unmarried kid who knew nothing about loss. And now I knew.
First came the sweat, and then suddenly I was crouching over a wastepaper basket, quietly being sick. Mallory and Sergeant Caine came
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