AS FAR AS THE Crawditch police were concerned, Prometheus was still number one suspect for the series of murders that had recently taken place, and as the man himself rounded a corner on the outskirts of the district, not far from The Black Sheep tavern, he smiled at a roughly sketched picture of himself-all beard and bald head-tacked to a wooden support beam of a grocery store. The word 'WANTED' was written in bold letters underneath. Various people ghosted past him, and around him, a few looking over their shoulders at the vastness of the man, but no one stuck around long enough to pay him much mind.
It was mid-afternoon, and the Irishman was idly strolling down the centre of Merchant Street, with his concentration focused upon reaching the police station as quickly as he could. For his plan to work, and his name to be cleared, he needed to enter the station willingly, for no one would believe his story if he were captured and brought in. He saw the unmistakable blue-painted double doors of the station up ahead, closed tight against the November wind, and a large pang of uncertainty suddenly formed inside his stomach. He knew he was feet away from freedom, but a part of him also knew that despite what he had said to Butter earlier, one of the most annoying qualities of Cornelius Quaint was that he was seldom wrong.
Prometheus grabbed the door handle, and was just about to open it when he heard the heavy pounding of footsteps coming in his direction. Looking around, he spied a low-lying fence, and leapt over, landing on his backside in the dirt. Pushing through the fence into a wall of large conifer trees, he tried his best to hide himself, aware that if there was one thing a seven-foot-tall man is no good at-it was hiding. His heart pumped like a jackhammer at the sudden flurry of activity, and he pressed his head tight to the wall, praying the enclosing trees would shield him. After a time, Prometheus heard the station door closing, and all was quiet in the main street once again.
Once Prometheus was confident that the officers had gone, he was just about to dart out into the street again when he heard raised voices behind him. He dove back into the branches of the trees as stealthily as he could considering his size, and moved cautiously towards the sounds of the conversation.
He soon reached another fence, and the voices were mere feet away. Something like the inevitable pull of a magnet dragged him towards the chatter. There were two voices, clearly heard. One was a broad Scottish accent, and the other, a far younger, local voice that Prometheus recognised instantly as belonging to one of the constables who had briefly visited him in his cell at the station. He couldn't remember the name, but he knew that the Scot was the young constable's superior officer. Prometheus held his breath, and his nerve, and concentrated on the two policemen's conversation.
'I thought you said this Reynolds beggar would be here at two o'clock, Jennings?' questioned Commissioner Dray, standing at the rear entrance to Crawditch police station. 'It's now getting on for three, and if he doesn't show up in five minutes, the deal's off and I walk, you get me?'
Constable Jennings shifted on his feet nervously. 'He'll be here, sir. He came to me, remember? He has to turn up!'
As if on cue, Jennings and Dray heard the scuffing of feet, and soon, dressed in a long overcoat and sporting a flat cap pulled down low to hide his scarred face, Mr Reynolds clambered over the station's yard gate, landing gracefully like a cat on the other side. As if he were another person entirely from the man who had graced the Bishop's lush apartment in Westminster Abbey, Reynolds seemed to carry himself differently now. The same cocksure attitude was still there, but his back was less hunched, he seemed wirier, and the fire that danced within his pale eyes made him look far more dangerous than Constable Jennings had previously seen. Reynolds approached Dray and held out his hand.
'Bonjour, Oliver, it's been a long time,' he said. The Cockney drawl was suddenly gone, and there was a new, melodic accent to his voice.
'You!' Commissioner Dray was stunned at the image of the man before him, and he strode over to Reynolds, pacing around him silently, as if he were a phantom. He took Reynolds's hand and shook it limply. 'My God…it…it really is you!' Dray said, as if all his strength had been sapped by the image of the man, like Samson after Delilah had sheared his hair. He blinked hard; clamping his eyes shut tight, and then opened them quickly -expecting the mirage to disappear. But, to his dread, it remained. 'But…but I thought…you were dead!'
'I got better,' said Reynolds.
Jennings scowled at the man. 'Boss? What d'you mean dead? This 'ere chap's my Mr Reynolds…d'you know 'im or somethin'? I thought you said you'd never met him?' the young constable asked.
'Oh, I know him all right, lad,' the Scotsman replied. 'Does Quaint know that you are still alive, that is the question?'
'Not yet, Oliver,' grinned Reynolds, 'but he soon will.'