constable was halfway down the corridor when he called over his shoulder, ‘Only our constables making a
pig’s ear of something that should be a simple arrest.’ He turned as he reached the far door.
Slevin saw the unusual glint in his superior’s eye, a flicker of anticipation that animated his normally cadaverous features. It wasn’t his place to ask the obvious question, though.
It would smack almost of insubordination.
‘Well, I must dash, sergeant. The Silver King awaits, eh?’ With that cryptic pronouncement he breezed through the door and disappeared from view.
Slevin gave a shrug and followed at a similarly rapid pace. If he hurried, he could be home in ten minutes – and then he might get half an hour with his son Peter before Sarah took him
upstairs.
As he passed the entrance to the Royal Court Theatre, he saw a crowd was already forming along the pavement for the evening performance, and some of the more elegantly dressed were already
inside, talking animatedly. He caught sight of the huge playbill advertising the production, The Silver King , and smiled to himself. Some detective he was. This notice had stared him in the
eye for the past week as he made his way home to Wallgate, and yet he had appeared confused when Captain Bell mentioned it.
He raised his hat to the bored young lady who sat in the tiny booth in the foyer, and the response he got – a sort of puzzled frown and a scowl for his impertinence – only served to
heighten his good humour.
*
Enoch Platt stood outside the Public Hall, clapping his hands together as fast as he could. He was of average height and sturdily built, his shoulders curved downwards from a
thick, sinewy neck. He was somewhere in his late forties, and his grey-black hair hung in matted strands like dead snakes. He wore a dark brown overcoat, open to the waist to reveal a filthy
collarless shirt that must have once been white. His thick black moustache hung over his mouth, obscuring his upper lip completely.
Those queueing to go in, most of whom knew him at least by sight, gave him glances ranging from sympathy, amusement and annoyance to barely concealed antipathy. Enoch, in return, gave each one
of them a glowering scowl and scrutinised their faces with especial and disconcerting closeness. Or rather, not so much their faces as their eyes. Once he had fixed someone with his eyes, that
person had only two options – to look away or to challenge and confront. For most people, the former was infinitely preferable.
Some did take verbal exception to his penetrating glare. But once it reached the point of physical contact, Enoch generally came out on top, straddling the one who had suddenly become his enemy
and drooling saliva onto his face as he thumped and cursed in rapid succession.
Now he was clapping his hands with such ferocity that he suddenly reached a crescendo of manic applause; then he stopped and stared intently at one of the people queueing, a man standing with
one foot on the stone steps of the building. He was a man of similar age to Enoch, but smaller in stature, the faint traces of black etched around his eyes betraying the slightly haunted look of
the miner. Beside him his wife held onto his arm and pulled it closer to her.
‘I see you!’ cried Enoch in that curiously hoarse rasp of a voice. He had raised an arm and was pointing a thick finger in the man’s direction. ‘Another waitin’ at
t’doors of hell!’
Unlike most of his selected victims, this man turned his gaze fully upon Enoch.
‘Sod off, Enoch,’ he said with a snarl.
Enoch stepped forward until he was a matter of inches from the man’s face. Their eyes locked together.
‘I been there!’ Enoch rasped. ‘I seen hell!’
Those behind were rather startled to see the man lean forward, so that his nose was almost touching Enoch’s. Only the ones standing closest to the tableau heard what the man said next.
‘Aye. An’ I’ve seen it too. An’ I’m not
pig’s ear of something that should be a simple arrest.’ He turned as he reached the far door.
Slevin saw the unusual glint in his superior’s eye, a flicker of anticipation that animated his normally cadaverous features. It wasn’t his place to ask the obvious question, though.
It would smack almost of insubordination.
‘Well, I must dash, sergeant. The Silver King awaits, eh?’ With that cryptic pronouncement he breezed through the door and disappeared from view.
Slevin gave a shrug and followed at a similarly rapid pace. If he hurried, he could be home in ten minutes – and then he might get half an hour with his son Peter before Sarah took him
upstairs.
As he passed the entrance to the Royal Court Theatre, he saw a crowd was already forming along the pavement for the evening performance, and some of the more elegantly dressed were already
inside, talking animatedly. He caught sight of the huge playbill advertising the production, The Silver King , and smiled to himself. Some detective he was. This notice had stared him in the
eye for the past week as he made his way home to Wallgate, and yet he had appeared confused when Captain Bell mentioned it.
He raised his hat to the bored young lady who sat in the tiny booth in the foyer, and the response he got – a sort of puzzled frown and a scowl for his impertinence – only served to
heighten his good humour.
*
Enoch Platt stood outside the Public Hall, clapping his hands together as fast as he could. He was of average height and sturdily built, his shoulders curved downwards from a
thick, sinewy neck. He was somewhere in his late forties, and his grey-black hair hung in matted strands like dead snakes. He wore a dark brown overcoat, open to the waist to reveal a filthy
collarless shirt that must have once been white. His thick black moustache hung over his mouth, obscuring his upper lip completely.
Those queueing to go in, most of whom knew him at least by sight, gave him glances ranging from sympathy, amusement and annoyance to barely concealed antipathy. Enoch, in return, gave each one
of them a glowering scowl and scrutinised their faces with especial and disconcerting closeness. Or rather, not so much their faces as their eyes. Once he had fixed someone with his eyes, that
person had only two options – to look away or to challenge and confront. For most people, the former was infinitely preferable.
Some did take verbal exception to his penetrating glare. But once it reached the point of physical contact, Enoch generally came out on top, straddling the one who had suddenly become his enemy
and drooling saliva onto his face as he thumped and cursed in rapid succession.
Now he was clapping his hands with such ferocity that he suddenly reached a crescendo of manic applause; then he stopped and stared intently at one of the people queueing, a man standing with
one foot on the stone steps of the building. He was a man of similar age to Enoch, but smaller in stature, the faint traces of black etched around his eyes betraying the slightly haunted look of
the miner. Beside him his wife held onto his arm and pulled it closer to her.
‘I see you!’ cried Enoch in that curiously hoarse rasp of a voice. He had raised an arm and was pointing a thick finger in the man’s direction. ‘Another waitin’ at
t’doors of hell!’
Unlike most of his selected victims, this man turned his gaze fully upon Enoch.
‘Sod off, Enoch,’ he said with a snarl.
Enoch stepped forward until he was a matter of inches from the man’s face. Their eyes locked together.
‘I been there!’ Enoch rasped. ‘I seen hell!’
Those behind were rather startled to see the man lean forward, so that his nose was almost touching Enoch’s. Only the ones standing closest to the tableau heard what the man said next.
‘Aye. An’ I’ve seen it too. An’ I’m not
Similar Books
