BACK IN HIS office in Crawditch, Commissioner Oliver Dray poured himself a generous amount of whisky and slumped into his chair. The stilted afternoon light stuttered through his window, suffusing its light with a misty sheen. Fog was already beginning to rise, streaming about the streets. The station house was close to the docks, and highly susceptible to the chilled mists carried in from the Thames.
A knock on his office door suddenly alerted the Commissioner, and he quickly stashed his glass inside a drawer. He beckoned the caller to enter, and hastily picked up a handful of forms and papers, trying to look busy. He relaxed considerably as Constable Jennings poked his head around the door.
'How do, guv'nor,' Jennings said with a nod. He stepped inside the room, and pulled up one of the Commissioner's chairs. 'Just thought I'd pop in for a bit. You know, to see what's what, an' all that.'
'What's what, Jennings, is that I'm looking incompetent!' Dray snapped, a ruby flash flourishing in his cheeks. 'Not only have we got this Irish lunatic leaving more bodies in his wake than the pox, but I've been informed that your mate Mr Reynolds's band of so-called "professionals" couldn't even do away with Quaint and his bloody Eskimo.'
Jennings nodded in agreement. 'I'm findin' it all a bit hard to fathom meself. I mean…all these murders-we know exactly who's doin' it, but we're powerless to stop 'em! I know I'm prob'ly out of line here…but how come you're lettin' Mr Reynolds get away wiv it, sir?'
'I wouldn't go so far as say I'm "letting" him,' seethed Dray, 'but what I will say is this; that man is party to some information that I'd rather wasn't made public, know what I mean?'
'Yes, sir…but p'raps it's all gettin' a bit out of hand.'
'Out of bloody hand is right, laddie! Reynolds promised me Quaint would be dead by the week's end, and so far the bastard is still walking!'
Jennings picked at his fingertips. 'I'm sorry, Commissioner, but what's Quaint done to you that makes you hate him so much? The Sarge said you an' him knew each other from ages back.'
Commissioner Dray rested back into his chair. 'Back when I was no policeman, and he was certainly no bloody circus magician. Yeah, our paths crossed for a short time,' Dray began, removing his whisky glass from his drawer again. 'I used to travel all over the world with my father, y'see, with his shipping business. We went to all sorts of places. The Orient, South America, Bolivia, Ecuador-all over. Quaint had spent most of his life-and a large part of his inherited fortune, I gather-traipsing from one country to the next, searching for what, I don't know. We met in Peru, back in the late twenties, early thirties I think, when he hooked up with our band. We were both a lot younger men, back in those days…I was in my middle twenties, but God knows about Quaint. He's probably always looked like a grizzly old bastard his whole life.'
'So, this Quaint was some kind of…'
'Opportunist,' snapped Dray. 'Or so he used to call himself, whatever that means. We found all these secret caves once, up in the Peruvian mountains, so we thought we'd stick around, searching for anything we could trade on back home. The locals were besotted with gold, you see, and the stuff was everywhere. They had these great big temples just full of the stuff, sitting around gathering dust! The tribe located there were simple folk, content to just sit in the sun and pray. So…seeing as it was all going to waste, my father decided that we'd make good use of all that gold ourselves,' Dray paused, watching the flicker of glee upon the youngster's face ignite.
'Now, my old man, he was a rogue in his youth, an' no mistake, but he was one shrewd operator. He'd been tipped off by a ruthless young French thug-a man who seemed to care even less for the locals than we did. A right nasty piece of work, he was…up until Quaint shot him, but that's another story. So, Father cooked up a deal to take over the tribe, and ship out all the gold back to England, where we'd all be rich men. So, we pitched up our camp, and made ourselves at home. We'd only been there a short time, when Quaint turned up and started shouting the odds at my father.'
'What's up with the bloke? Didn't he want to be rich?' asked Jennings.
'Quaint's the kind of person who loves to get involved, laddie. He'd set himself up as some kind of high authority or something, like he was better'n the rest of us. He stood up on the moral high ground and preached about this and that. How we were "messing with other cultures" and should learn to leave well alone!'
Jennings laughed like a guilty schoolboy.
Dray continued. 'When the final move came to overthrow the village by force, Quaint stood against us-against my father. Everything went haywire, and if it weren't for me, my father would've put a couple of bullets in him for sure. There was a big set-to with the villagers, and Quaint managed to turn the bloody lot of 'em against us. We had to grab what we could and get out of that place.'
'And that was the last you saw of Quaint, eh?'
'Well, you know what they say about bad pennies, Jennings,' said Dray. 'I made a deal with your mate Reynolds. He's supposed to be making sure that the bastard gets what he deserves…in exchange for me keeping our boys off Hawkspear's scent, and out of his business.'
'Right, I've got it now,' said Jennings. 'That Reynolds bloke has been blackmailin' you. Can't you just buy 'im off, like? Can't we just lock 'im up somewhere? Or, better'n that, 'ave someone sort 'im out, good an' proper?'
'It's not that easy, Jennings,' said Dray sharply. 'I've never even met the man-he uses you as his bloody messenger boy. I can't risk that information getting out. It'd be a bloody disaster.'
'So, what's he got on you then? Somethin' from the old days?'
'Not on me, Jennings-on my father. Back in Peru, he was involved in a couple of…I guess you could say "questionable" cargo deliveries…the type that you don't make receipts for.'
'What…like smugglin', you mean?'
Dray scratched at his chin. 'Big strong folk, those Peruvians. They fetch a pretty penny, and the women…very exotic, laddie, y'know what I mean?'
'What, your father was smugglin'…people?' asked Jennings. 'Slaves, you mean?'
'And somehow, this Reynolds fellow has found himself in the possession of evidence against my father. If it ever got out-not only would it kill my father, but it'd probably drag me down with him.'
'Crikey! And ain't your old man some kind of lord?' asked Jennings.
'Sir George Dray, successful businessman, and personal friend to a lot of people in high places, so he is. Royalty, aristocracy, clergy…just about anyone who's got any clout in this damn country these days,' said Dray, forcing a mouthful of whisky down his throat. 'He'd be crucified if this knowledge ever came out.'
'Maybe Reynolds is in league with Quaint? Maybe Quaint told 'im all he knows?'
'Blackmail's not exactly Quaint's style, Jennings,' smiled Dray.
'So what can we do, guv?' asked Jennings eagerly.
'Against Reynolds…not one damn thing,' said Dray dourly, running his finger over his teeth. 'Against Quaint though…now that's another thing entirely.'