The Tea Rose Part 53

"It's arson what we're doing," Stan said knowledgeably. "We've never done arson before."

"Put it on your curriculum vitae, lads," Bowler said sarcastically. His tone was lost on them.

"We could, you know," Stan said thoughtfully. "It's not every bloke 'as as much experience as we do, Reg. Pickpocketing, robbing, breaking and entering, extortion ... "

"Fixing sporting events ... " Reg said. "Breaking arms, kneecapping ... "

"Topping blokes. don't forget that. That's a big one."

"We could teach a course, us. For lads coming up in the business."

"Aye, we could!" Reg said excitedly. "But what would we call it?"

"The Stan Christie and Reg Smith School of Mayhem and Murder," Bowler said.

" 'As a nice ring to it, don't it?" Reg said. Stan agreed.

As they tossed ideas for cla.s.ses back and forth, Bowler sat down on a tea chest and rubbed his face. That it should come to this. A man of his stature mucking about in a s.h.i.+thole at midnight with the likes of these two. And for a madman like Burton, who'd only become more unpredictable and violent over the years as his money troubles increased. He'd seen him attack his own foreman, and he'd even gone for Stan once when the lad had laughed inappropriately. Once he wouldn't have considered doing a job like this. He'd have left it for the small fish, the amateurs. But paying jobs were harder and harder to come by.

It was all different now. Not like the good old days -1888 B. J. Bowler liked to call them-Before Jack. That grandstanding b.a.s.t.a.r.d had ruined it for everyone. In the wake of the murders, the legal and moral authorities of London had made the East End their top priority. They had a.s.signed more constables to the streets. There were more preachers. More missions and do-gooders. And that Ripping Roddy O'Meara, good to the promise he'd made, had stuck to his a.r.s.e all these years. Tailing him, talking to him in public as if he were some filthy informer, raiding the gaming dens and wh.o.r.ehouses he controlled. A bit of relief had come three years ago, after O'Meara made sergeant and had to spend most of his time behind a desk, but if his duties now kept the man from hara.s.sing him personally, he made certain his officers took up the slack.

And while the forces of right were pressing down on him, his own marks were growing more and more lawless. Some had stopped paying him altogether, like Denny Quinn down the Taj. Quinn was always pleading poverty, but he'd made pots of money out of the Taj. Bowler knew the real reason he wasn't paying-that b.l.o.o.d.y Sid Malone.

Bowler spat, feeling bilious at the mere thought of his rival. Malone was young. An upstart.

He'd come out of nowhere. A few years ago, he'd been just another wide boy-breaking heads, doing the odd robbery, moving stolen goods. There were hundreds of them. Minor criminals who thieved to eat or pay for a bed in some poxy lodging house. Malone hadn't remained in the ranks for long, though. Brains and b.a.l.l.s, combined with a reputation for ruthlessness, had ensured a swift rise to the top.

Like Bowler himself, Sid Malone controlled scores of illicit establishments and collected protection money. Unlike Bowler, he operated south of the river, in Lambeth, Southwark, Bermondsey, and Rotherhithe. Live and let live, had been Bowler's policy. As long as Malone stayed put on his side of the river, he would stay on his. Only Malone wasn't staying put. Over the last few months, he'd used his influence with wharfingers and s.h.i.+powners to further some very bold, and very lucrative, activities-running guns to Dublin, opium to New York, high-end swag to Paris. His success with these pursuits had sharpened his ambition. Rumors had been circulating that he was about to make a play for the north bank of the river-Bawler's own backyard. And yesterday, they'd been confirmed. Malone had made an appearance at the Taj. Reg and Stan had seen him. He'd had a meal, bet on a fight, and f.u.c.ked one of Quinn's wh.o.r.es.

The cheek. The b.l.o.o.d.y cheek, Bowler thought. He didn't know whose neck he wanted to break more: Malone's for p.i.s.sing in his territory or Quinn's for letting him.

Bowler would've killed Malone without a second's regret if only he could get the chance, but the man was well protected. To get to him, you'd have to plow through half a dozen lads first, each of whom was built like a brick s.h.i.+thouse. But Bowler knew what to do-he'd get to Denny Quinn instead. A message was going to be sent. A warning. It was too bad-he quite liked Denny-but if he permitted that sort of behavior, where would he be? Floating a.r.s.e-up in the Thames, that's where.

Malone's Thames.

Kerosene fumes. .h.i.t him, making him cough. "Are you two finished yet?"

"Aye, guv. We are," Stan said.

" 'Ow's our vagabond friend?"

"A bit cold at the moment, but we'll soon warm 'im up."

Bowler's eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he had no trouble picking out the lifeless body on the floor or the tobacco tin sticking out of its pocket. They'd found him dozing in an alley. He'd put up quite a fight. A shame, really, but there was no help for it-the old gent would hardly have consented to being burned alive. When the flames were put out, it would look like a dosser had had himself a smoke and accidentally set the place on fire. "Got the bottle?" he asked.

"Right 'ere," Reg said, holding up an empty gin bottle. "Matches?"

"Aye."

They quietly left the building the way they'd come m, through a side door, locking it with the key Burton had provided, leaving everything just as they'd found it. Outside, Reg poured kerosene into the bottle, then soaked a length of sacking, twisted it, and stuffed it into the neck, leaving a few inches at the top for a fuse. Then he lit a match and touched it to the rag. It caught, flaring violently.

"Now, lad!" Bowler hissed.

Reg sent the bottle whizzing through an empty window. Already running, Bowler glanced back to make sure his lads were following. Stan was right behind him, but Reg was standing still, waiting to see if the flames took. Bowler heard an enormous, sucking whoomph, followed by an ear-split" ting explosion. The gas lines are still live, he thought before the force of till' blast knocked him a.r.s.e over t.i.t. Windows in the neighboring factories and houses shattered. Shards of gla.s.s rained down around him. As he struggled to his feet, he felt Stan at his elbow. "Let's got" he shouted.

"What about Reggie?" "Forget 'im! 'e's done for!"

In the s.p.a.ce of mere seconds, flames had engulfed the building. The street had filled with smoke. Just then, Reg came loping out of the thick, gray billows. His face was streaked black, there were cuts on his cheeks. " 'Ard way to make a living, this," he said wearily. "From 'ere on out, guv, let's stick to the rackets."

Chapter 58.

"Put the bottle down, Lizzie!" Roddy O'Meara thundered. "Right now! You put one mark on her and it's t'ree months in the nick. Hear me, la.s.s! I said put it down!"

"Stinking little b.i.t.c.h tried to steal me punter!" the woman shouted. "I'll cut 'er face oil! Like to see 'er steal anyone then!"

Lizzie Lydon, a prost.i.tute, had knocked another streetwalker named Maggie Riggs to the ground in front of a pub called The Bells. She was now sitting astride her, attempting to jam a broken bottle into her cheek. Maggie's hands were wrapped around Lizzie's wrist, desperately trying to stay it. Roddy was only five yards away from them and could easily overpower Lizzie if he got to her in time. If he didn't, Maggie would pay the price.

"Come on, Liz, put it down. You don't want the kind of trouble you'll get if you cut her."

Lizzie looked up at him. Her face was twisted by anger, but her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. "But 1 saw 'im first, guv," she said. " 'e was my punter! Went to the loo and when 1 got back she was 'alfway out the door with 'im!"

Roddy took a few steps toward her. "Give me the bottle, luv."

''I've been sleeping rough for a week!" she cried. "I just want a bed for the night, that's all."

Her gaze fell upon Maggie again. "And 1 'ad it, too! Till ,she thieved me customer!"

"Let her up. Sleeping rough's still better than the nick."

Lizzie laughed mirthlessly. "You're wrong there, guv. At least you get a bowl of skilly in the nick. At least it's warm."

Roddy was squatting beside Lizzie now. He reached out for the bottle.

"Come on, now," he coaxed. "We're all t'rough carrying on." She handed it over. He helped her up, then Maggie, eyeing their worn skirts and grimy hands as he did. Lizzie's own cheek was horribly scarred, torn in some long ago fight. Maggie's wrists, sticking out past the cuffs of her threadbare purple jacket, were nothing but skin over bone.

Roddy was well aware that he should arrest them for being drunk and disorderly, but he wouldn't. They weren't criminals, these women, they were just desperate. Desperate and hungry and spent. He told them what mission would allow them a bowl of soup without making them choke down too much religion with it and warned them that he wouldn't be so lenient the next time. Then he advised the half dozen onlookers who had gathered to be on their way and resumed his walk, heading east toward Christ Church.

As a sergeant, Roddy was no longer required to patrol the streets, but it was a long-standing habit with him, one he indulged in nightly for an hour or so on his way home to his family and his two-story row house in safe, respectable Bow. It kept him in contact with the people he was paid to protect. It also let the bad element know that he was out there on their turf, watching them.

"Evening, sir," came a voice from the gloom.

Roddy squinted into the fog and saw a squat, bulky figure approaching~ helmeted, a row of bra.s.s b.u.t.tons on his blue jacket. He smiled. It was McPherson. Twenty-five years on the force and still walking the streets. Not because he wasn't good enough to move up. He was one of the smartest, toughest officers Roddy had ever known and he'd been offered advancement many times, but he'd always turned it down. The man wanted nothing to do with the headaches and frustrations of rank.

"Quiet night, Constable?" he asked.

"For the most part. Yourself?"

"Stopped one la.s.s tearing off another's face," Roddy said nonchalantly.

"That so?"

"Aye."

McPherson laughed. "You're a rum one, Sergeant. Most of the bra.s.s can't wait to get off the streets, you can't wait to get back on 'em. 'Eaded 'orne, are .you?"

"Aye. T'ought I'd walk a bit first. See what 1 can see." "1 just saw something interesting meself."

"Oh, aye?"

"Sid Malone and Denny Quinn. Coming out of the Taj." Roddy frowned.

"Malone? The bloke from Lambeth?"

"The very one."

"Whitechapel's pretty far afield for him. Wonder what he's up to?"

"No good, I'm sure."

"What's he look like?"

McPherson shrugged. "Like every other criminal in London. Big. Tough. Just as soon kill you as look at you. You've never seen 'im?"

"If I did, it was some years ago." Roddy remembered that Charlie Finnegan had worked with a lad called Sid Malone at the brewery, and that this lad had tried to manhandle Fiona. He had paid him a call shortly then' after, advising him never to trouble her again. The Sid Malone he remembered had been a bully, and bullies picked fights with people weaker that themselves. The Sid Malone who had visited the Taj was picking a fight will, someone stronger. A lot stronger.

"I 'ear 'e's very busy on the south bank," McPherson said. "Maybe 'e's thinking of setting up shop in our neighbor'ood."

"Could be. Keep your ear to the ground."

"I will. You heading north, Sergeant? Go take a gander at the tea factory.

Fire nearly burned the whole street down. Forty-odd families 'omeless. official word is a dosser was in there smoking. Fell asleep and set the place alight." Roddy spat. A bad taste had crept into his mouth. "Unofficial word is, Bowler Sheehan. Sure, we'll never pin it on him. It's all 'Hear no evil, see no evil.' As usual."

"Sheehan's a firebug now?"

"He does the odd job for the man who owns the place. William Burton Estate agent 1 talked to says Burton's had the building on the market for years. My guess is he hired Sheehan to help him collect a big fat insurance check."

"Well, 'e picked a good night for a fire. Nice and dry. Not like tonight. He rubbed his hands together. "This is Ripper weather."

"Aye, it is. Don't talk about him much anymore. He's a forbidden topic in my home."

"In mine, too."

It was a forbidden topic in the homes of all the officers who had worked on the case. Wives had heard the stories over and over again and were tired of their husbands' obsession with a madman.

"It's over with, Roddy. It's done!" Grace had shouted at him shortly after they were married, after he'd thrashed himself awake from yet another nightmare. "They found that body in the Thames and everyone says it was Jack. Nothing you can do will bring those women back. Or Kate Finnegan.

For G.o.d's sake, why can't you let it go?"

Why indeed? He wanted to. He didn't want to see Annie Chapman's dead eyes in his nightmares. He didn't want to wake up with the scent of blood in his nostrils. He didn't want to hear Fiona's sobs as they lowered her poor murdered mother into the ground. He wished he could just believe what he was supposed to~that Montague Druitt, the young barrister whose body police had pulled from the Thames in '88, was the murderer.

As if reading his thoughts, McPherson said, "It's a load of tripe, the Yard saying Druitt was the Ripper. 1 never believed it."

Roddy gave him a long look. "Nor 1. Not'ing fits. The poor lad was as mad as a hatter, but he wasn't a murderer. No history of violence. And he didn't know Whitechapel."

"Not like Jack knew Whitechapel."

"Or still does," Roddy said softly.

It was a thought both men shared, but rarely voiced~the idea that Jack was still out there somewhere. Biding his time. Each had seen a body or two over the years~streetwalkers who'd been strangled or stabbed-and each had wondered if it was Jack's work. Had he learned to control his compulsions? Indulging them less frequently? Had he learned to vary his method? The top bra.s.s did its best to keep these deaths quiet. The case was closed, they said. The Ripper was dead.

"Should let it rest, 1 guess," McPherson said. "We'll never know for sure, will we? 'Ave to file it under unfinished business."

Roddy nodded. Unfinished business. That was part of the job no one had told him about.

Subduing a man, what to do when you were outnumbered.~these were things that could be learned.

But no training could prepare you for the unsolved cases. The dead ends. The failure. As a young man, he'd refused to accept it, believing if he just worked harder, he'd solve every case. He'd find the clue, the one overlooked detail, that would help him catch the thief: the child molester, the murderer.

He'd learned differently over the years. He'd learned that sometimes there were no clues. Sometimes criminals were smart. Or lucky. He'd learned, after many years, how to kiss his wife at the end of the day and put his children to bed, knowing full well that robbers prowled as he did so, women were beaten, murderers walked free. He'd had many teachers, but none better than Jack.

''I'm off, then," McPherson said. "Going to take a stroll round Brick Lane. The scenic route.

Night, Sergeant. Safe 'ome."

"And you, McPherson. Take care."

Roddy continued east. He twirled his nightstick as he walked, still deep in the memories of '88. The past wasn't gone on a night like this. It was as real as the solid cobbles under his feet, the bitter air he breathed. He consoled himself with the one good thing that had come out of all the misery-Fiona's and Seamie's escape from this place. Their new life in America.

He'd just had a Christmas card from Fiona with a likeness of herself, her husband Nicholas, and Seamie enclosed. She'd grown into such a beautiful woman. But then again, she'd always been a bonny la.s.s. And Seamie was a young man now. Handsome and tall. Roddy had been so happy to get that card. He was always happy when her letters and photographs arrived. It pleased him to think what she'd made of herself. A tea merchant! The biggest one in all of America, no less.

Her husband was a toff Roddy could see it from the photographs, but she said he was very good to her and that she loved him very much. From the looks of things, she'd done a d.a.m.n sight better for herself with this bloke than she would have with Joe Bristow. The thought of how Joe had treated her still rankled at times, but Roddy's feelings toward him had long since softened.

He could still see the lad as he looked when he'd returned from New York. Hollow. As if his very heart had been torn out. He'd given Roddy four pounds that he had left over, a promise to pay back the remainder, and a newspaper that showed photographs of Fiona and her new husband and told all about their wedding. Roddy had made him come in and drink a gla.s.s of whiskey. He hadn't had the heart to tell him he'd received a letter from Fiona two days after he'd left. He hadn't seen much of him after that. Joe come on two or three occasions to payoff his debt and that was it.

In all the letters he'd had from Fiona over the years, she'd, never asked about Joe. And Roddy had never mentioned him. Why stir up old hurts! He'd never mentioned Bowler Sheehan, either, or his claim that she had stolen money from William Burton. The whole thing still puzzled him, but after he'd learned she was in New York, he'd stopped worrying that Sheehan would harm her. He'd never known her to be anything less than honest, but maybe she'd been so desperate to get away from here, from her grief, that she'd relieved Burton of a few quid to do it. So what? He'd had plenty to spare.

In every letter he'd written to her, he asked her to come back to visit. He would so love to see her and Seamie again and meet her husband. She always declined, however, citing Nicholas's poor health. She had invited him and his family to New York, too. Countless times. He wanted to go, but he couldn't face the long sea voyage. His weak stomach would make the two weeks a misery. The only time he'd been on a boat was when he'd traveled from Dublin to Liverpool with Michael and Paddy. He'd spent the entire journey with his head over the railing and the Finnegans laughing at him. His eyes crinkled with merriment at the memory.

Paddy ... Christ, how I miss him, he thought. His smile faded. If only he hadn't taken the watchman's s.h.i.+ft that night ... things would have been so different. They'd all still be here ... Paddy, Kate, the children. That was all Paddy had wanted-his family and the means to provide for them. It wasn't a lot to ask for. Not much at all.