Blood on the Line

Religion causes us so many problems here. Talking of which,’ he continued with barely concealed derision, ‘do you know what the city’s Watch Committee decided last year? In its supposed wisdom, it brought in a rule that all constables should attend church or chapel regularly.’

‘How can they do that when they work most Sundays?’

‘That was my argument. Police are police, not saints-in-waiting. Some of my best men have never seen the inside of a church. It doesn’t make them less effective at their job. Anyway,’ said Boone, raising an apologetic palm, ‘you didn’t come here to listen to my complaints. It was the escape of Jeremy Oxley that brought you, wasn’t it?’

Colbeck was surprised. ‘You know about that?’

‘We do get the London papers here. Besides, the story was picked up in the Manchester Guardian. I read that less often because it’s always attacking us for one thing or another. Read The Guardian and you’d think that Manchester was awash with prostitutes, thugs and thieves. It’s a city without any law enforcement, apparently.’ He became serious. ‘I always take a close interest in any case where policemen are killed, Robert. I saw that you’d been put in charge of the investigation. Have you picked up Oxley’s scent yet?’

‘Actually, it’s his accomplice who interests me at the moment.’

Colbeck explained that the woman might well have links to Manchester and he told his friend about his earlier encounter with Jeremy Oxley and how there was unfinished business between them. After listening to him with care, Boone went through a number of names in his head. He needed clarification.

‘You say that this young woman is beautiful.’

‘At the very least, she’s appealing,’ said Colbeck. ‘Oxley has high standards where his female accomplices are concerned. And he has sufficient money to be able to maintain those standards.’

‘Then I think we’re looking at one of three possible suspects,’ said Boone, scratching his beard. ‘Annie Pardoe is the first who comes to mind. Any man would find her appealing on sight, though less so when she gives him a mouthful of abuse. Annie was brought in here once. She might look like a lady but she had the foul tongue of a fishwife. Then again, it could be Nell Underwood. She comes from a good family but it didn’t stop her from getting drawn into the wrong company. Even a spell in prison hasn’t had any effect on her. We’re still looking for Nell in connection with the theft of some items from a haberdasher’s shop. She’s very light-fingered.’

‘Do either of these women have a local accent?’

‘Nell does but Annie Pardoe tries to hide hers. She’s fond of putting on airs and graces – until she’s behind bars, that is. Then she snarls like a caged tiger.’

‘You said that there were three possible suspects.’

‘Yes, Robert, but the third one has never been in custody so we’ve never actually seen her. Her name is Irene Adnam. All that we have to go on are the descriptions of her victims. She’s not a high-class prostitute like Annie or a common criminal like Nell. This lady has some style about her. She wins people’s confidence, robs them blind then vanishes for long periods. Reports of her crimes in the city are six months or more apart. But she’s a Manchester girl,’ said Boone, ‘and I’m told she has more than a trace of a local accent.’

‘That sounds promising.’

‘I can put you in touch with one of her victims, if you like,’ offered Boone, delving into a pile of papers. ‘He can give you as exact a description of her as you’re likely to get.’ Pulling out a sheet of paper, he gave a smile of satisfaction. ‘What did I tell you? I found it first time.’ He handed it over. ‘Make a note of that name and address.’

‘Thank you, Zachary.’

‘And if you do find her, hand her over to us. I’m very anxious to make the acquaintance of Irene Adnam. She’s a cut above the women I normally see in here.’ His voice darkened. ‘She’s a menace. I want her off the streets of Manchester, Robert.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘Do you need details of the whereabouts of Annie Pardoe and Nell Underwood?’

‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ said Colbeck. ‘Something tells me that Irene Adnam is the woman I’m after. I can feel it in my bones.’

Boone grinned. ‘Is that sciatica or policeman’s instinct?’

‘A little of both, I fancy,’ said Colbeck with a grin.

Irene had changed before she visited her father. Going to Deansgate in the smart clothing she usually wore would make her incongruous. It was the poorest part of the city, an ugly, squalid, malodorous place that was the haunt of criminals and the refuge of beggars. That her father had been reduced to living there was a source of regret and embarrassment to Irene. When she was born, her parents had owned a house in a more salubrious part of Manchester. Those days seemed a lifetime away. She now had to venture into more perilous territory. In sober apparel, and in a hat that covered much of her face, she could easily pass for a servant. That was her disguise.

Though she met with unpleasantness at every turn, Irene had no qualms for her own safety. She had learnt to look after herself and built up a protective shield. She therefore ignored the army of beggars, pushed aside the ragged children who tried to harass her and repelled any lustful men who lurched at her out of the shadows. The streets were narrow, filthy and teeming with low life. The rookeries resounded to the din of violent argument. When she got to the tenement she sought, Irene knocked hard on the door with her knuckles. It was an age before anyone answered and she had to rap on the timber another three times before her father finally appeared. He was short, scrawny and whiskered. Half-asleep and with a surly wariness, he peered at her through one eye.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘It’s me, Father,’ she said. ‘It’s Irene.’

‘You don’t look like my daughter.’

‘I told you that I’d come back when I could.’

As he came fully awake, he stared at her with a mixture of shame and gratitude, hurt that she should see him living in such degradation yet anticipating some financial help from her. Silas Adnam stepped back so that she could go into the ground-floor room that was his home. It was cramped, gloomy and sparsely furnished, with an abiding stench of beer that assaulted Irene’s nostrils. Closing the door, her father limped in after her. His clothes were tattered and his wispy hair unkempt. He stood back to appraise her properly.

‘Thank God!’ he said with a toothless smile. ‘It is you.’

‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t come earlier.’

‘It’s been months and months, Irene.’

‘I’ve been very busy, Father.’

‘Are you still with the same family?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I work as governess elsewhere now.’

His eyes kindled. ‘Is it well paid?’

‘I’ve saved up enough to help you.’

When she handed over the money, he let out a cry of thanks then embraced her warmly. She could smell the beer on his breath.

‘Buy some better clothes,’ she advised.

He shook his head. ‘They won’t belong here.’

It was painful to see the depths to which he’d sunk. Silas Adnam had once worked as an assistant manager in a cotton mill. He’d had status, respect and a decent income. But the untimely death of his wife had driven Adnam close to despair. He’d become distracted and unreliable. Sacked from his job and unable to find another of equivalent merit, he’d been forced to sell the house. He’d then drifted from one badly paid job to another until an injury to his foot had left him with a permanent limp. Having turned to drink for consolation, he found a number of new friends ready to help him spend his way through his meagre savings. When they disappeared, the so-called friends did so as well. As a last resort, Adnam drifted into Deansgate and made a few pennies each day as a street musician. All that he now had in life was a rented room and an outside privy that he shared with over two dozen other tenants.

Irene was shocked to see how much he’d deteriorated.

‘How have you been keeping?’ she asked.