Kultus by Richard Ford

Earl’s killers to justice, and Amelia was not about to let Surrey be the one to stand in her way. This was simple murder; the Earl had gotten himself in too deep and paid for it with his heart. It was obvious his murder was a message. Otherwise, why leave the body where it could easily be found? If it was some kind of ritualistic slaughter surely they would have disposed of him in a more discreet fashion than this.
    There was only one place to start, and that place was obvious. The Cistern was home to all the refuse of the Manufactory. A breeding ground for the city’s unwanted and tainted and fetid. It was also where you could buy anything you desired for the right price, and right now Amelia wanted information.
    ‘I think we’ve seen enough,’ she said, moving away from the body, forcing herself not to glance back in case the Earl’s glazed and staring eyes happened to catch hers.
    As Amelia left the body behind she began to relax, feeling more comfortable within the confines of her uniform and with her men at her shoulder.
    Wrong kind of medicine indeed.
    The next time she saw Surrey she would ensure that he would be the one needing the medicine!

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    He had let Tarquin Bates off the hook, but only to see if he could land a bigger fish. There were few who could say they had escaped the clutches of Thaddeus Blaklok with not a mark to show for it, and it was unlikely that Tarquin would be one of those few.
    Blaklok kept to the shadows, hugging the filthy brick of street corners, watching from the dark as Tarquin made his way through the arterial highways of the Manufactory. The little shit knew something more than he was telling, and Blaklok was going to find out what it was.
    The easy trail that Tarquin left led all the way to the Trader’s Precinct, a collection of old storehouses and derelict shop fronts that had been used in bygone years for distribution and barter of goods from the river-barons. Now the river trade was dead and the only thing that pervaded the streets of the Precinct was the stench of the stagnant waterway.
    The streets became quieter the further towards the Precinct they got, until they were all but deserted. Tarquin must have had serious business indeed if he risked crossing through this part of the city alone. The Precinct was now home to all manner of waifs and moochers, and Tarquin Bates hardly seemed the type able to defend himself against a determined ruffian. Nevertheless, Bates continued on his merry way, seemingly ignorant of any danger as he wended his way through the filthy streets. As Blaklok followed he realised that there was either a strong fetish watching over the little reprobate or the scum of the Precinct were familiar with Bates and somehow willing to give him a wide berth.
    Thaddeus himself cared little for the robbers and footpads of the Trader’s Precinct. Usually a threatening look was all that was needed to keep trouble at bay in the Manufactory’s dives and ghettos, and here would be no different. It was strange though, that he never once saw sign of any street stalkers or cutthroats. The Precinct was not somewhere he often frequented but still, its reputation preceded it.
    Ahead he could see that Bates was headed towards one of the large wooden storehouses that backed onto the river. It was a tall, imposing building that dwarfed all the others in this particular square. Tarquin strolled across the centre of the plaza, now strewn with debris, where once traders would have noisily bartered their wares.
    An uneasy feeling suddenly crept into Blaklok’s gut as he watched the lithe figure reach the storehouse and knock out a strange beat against the small door. Seconds later it opened a chink, then wider to allow Bates entry.
    Blaklok slipped around the outskirts of the square, taking care to stay out of sight of the storehouse. There could be any number of eyes watching from within the rickety building, and he wanted to get the drop on whoever was