an aley so narrow that Laurence couldn't imagine it ever got sunlight. The cobbles beneath their feet were dark and damp. At smal, irregular intervals, there were shalow doorways. Washing was strung across the street; despite the lack of light or warmth, people obviously lived here. A woman stood at a single water pump, talking to a young girl with a grizzling baby on her hip. They al fel silent as the men passed. Laurence hoped they weren't being led into some kind of dead end where the man or his friends would swiftly relieve Charles of the rest of his money, but eventualy the aley came out in a wider, cleaner street with a neat row of smal vilas on one side.
They crossed over. To their left a cemetery spread out, covering a sizeable area of ground. Whilst there was no sign of a church, an apparently abandoned mortuary lodge stood at the entrance and beyond it sooty stones were arranged in tidy rows, with the occasional rusting iron cross or hefty stone angel. The man looked pleased with himself and pointed through the open gateway.
'There you are,' he said. 'There he is. And not likely to be leaving.'
'He's dead?' said Laurence, after a split second's confusion. 'You're teling us he's dead?'
He felt irritated but largely because it had never entered his head that Tucker might have died. Al his reasoning needed Tucker alive. The man stepped away slightly as if nervous one of them would take a swing at him, yet stil hoping for the sixpence.
Laurence was lost in thought. Somehow he felt the unknown Tucker would always have been protected by his own opportunism. He was trying to recalibrate every assumption he'd made. Even if Tucker wasn't directly implicated in John's shooting, he had associated him with the other violent deaths. Tucker's malevolence had been a fixed point in the story Laurence had built up.
Finaly he asked, 'When?'
'Bert? Back last winter. December? January? February mebbe?'
'So where's his grave?' said Charles, looking towards the dismal rows of stones.
The man looked at them, almost amused. He waved towards the left of the grounds. 'Resting in the arms of Jesus. Bert's hardly one for a fancy stone. Not the type and not the money any more. He was peddling his own wife the last months.' He looked momentarily uneasy. 'Offered her to me once but you never knew with him what was a joke. But no way she was about to get him al the fancy trimmings when he copped it. No, there he is and there he'l stay, but I expect even she doesn't know exactly where he is. No change there.'
'How did he die?' Laurence beat Charles to it.
'Drowned.'
'Drowned?' said Laurence. 'What,
'In the canal. Down by the basin. Beyond the Tap and Spile. Near the Mission. He'd been drinking. Fel in or pushed in. Depends who you talk to.' He looked pleased at the effect of his information.
Laurence looked at Charles.
'Which?' Charles asked.
'Wel, the police says fel. Drunk and drowned. They don't give a farthing. He was a bit of a vilain and so, likely, was the man who done for him, so what should they care? Bert was a mean bastard, begging your pardon, but he knew the area and he looked after hisself. When he'd had too much—when he could afford to have too much—other people came out of it the worse. He didn't. More likely, somebody had enough of his schemes. His wife, mebbe?' He coughed. 'No, she's had al the nerve beaten out of her as wel as her teeth. Would never have the guts to do him in. Besides she was wailing al night, they say, and what's she going to do now with her little 'uns?'
'So it's just you who thinks he was murdered?'
'Nah. Everybody knows it round here. For starters the kiler was seen by a local. Police weren't having it because the man—bloke caled Victor—was on the job with a part-timer, a girl caled Betty Carew, and they'd been drinking half the evening. But not so drunk they don't remember a man hanging about. They were round the back of Mathieson's warehouse and they saw this stranger looking like he was up to no good, they tel it. A bit later they heard Bert singing as he went home. He was drinking in the Tap after he'd been banned from his usual. It was a pretty miserable night, they said—raining on and off. 'Course they didn't recognise him spot on—
he had his cap and scarf on and head down, but it was him. He was a great man for a song, Bert. Few minutes later, Betty, not quite as occupied as old Victor, if you know what I mean, says she heard a cry and then a splash. Police said if she did, why didn't the two of them go see, but she was earning and it was a bad night and too cold not to get on with it.' He leered. 'Old Bert didn't look his best when they got him out.'
'These two found his body?'
'Some bargee the next day shifting pig iron. He was down by the lock. Face mashed up a bit. His own mum wouldn't hardly of known him if she ever did, but who knows whether he'd been thumped before he went into the water.'
'Was there any idea who did it?' Laurence interrupted.
The man shrugged. 'Like I said, there was plenty was glad to see him gone. That's not the same thing as knocking him off, though.'
'Had there been any trouble beforehand?'
Always in trouble was Bert since the war. Never the biggest but he was the toughest before the drink started to get to 'im.' The man beamed—his pleasure in Tucker's malignity was obvious. 'Even 'is own officer hated him.'
Charles and Laurence looked at each other.
'He come up here, just like you, and gave him a drubbing. Wiliams—in the pub today but knows to keep his mouth shut—was in the same regiment, recognised the man. Bloke asked around like you have. One of the reasons no one's speaking: we aren't after more trouble. Specialy after Bert's gone and got himself kiled. Found him in the Woodman, the stranger did. He weren't barred then. Talked for a bit. Shouting the odds. Bert tels him to fuck off for a coward, 'scuse my French, dragged him outside. The landlord shouts he's barred. The gent cals Bert this and that and lays one on him. He's good.' The man's eyes sparkled in recolection.
'Time was, Bert would have put up a fight but he just goes down. Blood everywhere. The gent gets a bloody nose but Bert comes off worse. 'E's spitting teeth and tels him he'l get him. But as it turns out someone gets him
