Before the end of the week, Pitt knew why he had not been able to find Albie. The news came as a courtesy from the Deptford police station. It was just a simple message that a body that had been pulled out of the river might be Albie, and if it was of any interest to Pitt, he was welcome to come and look at it.
He went. After all, Albie Frobisher was involved in one of his cases, or had been. That he had been pulled out of the water at Deptford did not mean that that was where he had gone in-far more likely Bluegate Fields, where Pitt had last seen him.
He did not tell anyone where he was going. He said simply that the Deptford station had sent a message for him, a possible identification of a corpse. That was reasonable enough, and happened all the time, men from one station assisting another.
It was one of those hard, glittering days when the east wind comes off the Channel like a whip, lashing the skin, stinging the eyes. Pitt pulled his collar higher, his muffler tighter around his throat, then jammed his hat down so the wind did not catch it under the brim and snatch it off.
The cab ran smartly along the streets, horses's hooves ringing on the ice-cold stones, the cabby bundled so high in clothes he could hardly see. When they stopped at the Deptford police station, Pitt got out, already stiff with cold from sitting still. He paid the cabbie and dismissed him. He might be a long time; he wanted to know far more than the identity-if this was indeed Albie.
Inside there was a potbellied stove burning, with a kettle on it, and a uniformed constable sat near the stove with a mug of tea in his hand. He recognized Pitt and stood up.
'Morning, Mr. Pitt, sir. You come to look at that corpse we got? Like a cup o' tea first? Not a nice sight, and a wicked cold day, sir.'
'No, thanks-see it first, then I'd like one. Talk about it a bit-if it's the bloke I know.'
'Poor little beggar.' The constable shook his head. 'Still, maybe 'e's best out of it. Lived longer than some of 'em.
221
We've still got 'im 'ere, out the back. No hurry for the morgue on a day like this.' He shivered. 'Reckon as we could keep 'em froze right 'ere for a week!'
Pitt was inclined to agree. He nodded at the constable and shuddered in sympathy.
'Fancy keeping a morgue, do you?'
'Well, they'd 'ave to be less trouble 'n the live ones.' The constable was a philosopher. 'And don't need no feedin'!' He led the way through a narrow corridor whistling with drafts, down some stone steps, and up into a bare room where a sheet covered a lumpy outline on a wooden table.
'There you are, sir. 'E the one wot you knows?'
Pitt pulled the sheet off the head and looked down. The river had made its mark. There was mud and a little slimy weed on the hair, the skin was smudged, but it was Albie Frobisher.
He looked farther down, at the neck. There was no need to ask how he had died; there were finger marks, bruised and dark, on the flesh. He had probably been dead before he hit the water. Pitt moved the sheet off the rest of him, automatically. He would be careless to overlook anything else, if there was anything.
The body was even thinner than he had expected, younger than it had seemed with clothes on. The bones were so slight and the skin still had the blemishless, translucent quality of childhood. Perhaps that had been part of his stock in trade, his success.
'Is that Mm?' the constable said from just behind him.
'Yes.' Pitt put the sheet back over him. 'Yes, that's Albie Frobisher. Do you know anything about it?'
'Not much to know,' the constable said grimly. 'We get 'em out of the river every week, sometimes every day in the winter, some of 'em we recognize, a lot we never know. You finished 'ere?'
'Yes, thank you.'
'Then come back and 'ave that cup o' tea. He led the way back to the potbellied stove and the kettle.
