He walks away, waving an arm dismissively when Jordan reminds him about payment for the Champion, not even glancing back as he heads towards the parapet. Jordan is intrigued to see what he does – wonders if it’s a girl he’s after – but the prospect of getting home, removing his boots, and downing some ale has more appeal. So the driver eases his car around.
HARRY waits until he can no longer hear the engine noise. Then he turns away from the river, where some boats are moored at a rickety timber jetty. He ignores the shameless stares of the youths, who pass comments one to another as he approaches the red-brick building, and also the entreaties of the woman in the bonnet, who tries to draw close to him as he walks away from her.
‘Mister,’ she says. ‘Hey mister – don’t you want to talk to me?’ She thinks it odd that the man with curly hair doesn’t even give her an appraising look.
This has to be it, Harry tells himself, though there is no sign over the timber door. Queen’s Wharf, Rickards had said. Harry tries the handle, but it is locked. Damn. He knocks on the door, politely at first, then, when there is no response, more insistently. He hears the scraping sound of a bolt being pulled back. The door opens away from Harry, but the man who faces him – short, with a pale complexion made to appear more sallow by a pair of bushy side-whiskers – scans him quickly then looks beyond him. He appears puzzled when he sees that this visitor is unaccompanied.
‘No delivery?’ he asks.
‘No. I’m alone.’
The whiskered man considers him again, up and down.
‘What’s your business here?’
‘This is the dead house – the city morgue?’
‘It is. But we don’t welcome strangers here. Especially live ones.’
An empty space between uneven teeth, stained yellow, when he grins.
‘Of course,’ Harry replies, feeling in his vest pocket for one of his cards. ‘I understand. But I was hoping you might indulge me with a small favour.’
‘Why would I do that?’
Stale tobacco on his breath.
‘You don’t know who I am?’
A cursory glance before shaking his head.
‘I am Houdini. Here.’
The man takes Harry’s card with one grubby hand, but is much less impressed by the raised lettering spelling out the name and a New York address than the five-pound note Harry has slipped behind it.
‘Best you come in, then.’ He stands aside, leaving room for Harry to enter. The bolt is drawn back behind him.
The gloom contrasts with the late-afternoon light outside. There are shallow windows, set high into the walls, too dirty or too small to be effective. But to Harry the most striking feature is the smell of oil-burning lanterns and damp air. Also something cloying and sweet.
‘Well?’
The fellow is awaiting further information, leaning against a table on which Harry can make out some papers, a flask, and a loaf of bread; gnawed inwards from one side. Harry almost gags at the thought of eating in such a place. But he tries to assume a blithe manner as he continues. He rehearsed this conversation during the drive. Thought he might befriend any attendant, talk about escapes he has made from prison cells and also the Paris morgue, then suggest he was contemplating something similar here. But he senses already that this man would be unimpressed by tales of past exploits. So he cuts straight to the point.
‘I was hoping you could help me.’
The man fingers the note he has been given. Leans forward. Sniffs.
‘Thing is, well, help can be expensive … ah, much obliged. So …?’
‘I read in the newspaper about an unfortunate woman who died in the river at the weekend.’
‘Yeah. Heard about her. A young mother. But she’s not here.’
He tucks his money into a trouser pocket, concerned now that the visitor might want some of it back.
‘But what if someone is not identified, not claimed?’ Harry is pacing around. ‘A young woman, perhaps. From the river.’
‘We get our share of them, for sure. Poor things, treated bad. In shame. With nobody to help out – so off a bridge they go.’
‘Do you have anyone like that now?’
The man with whiskers senses his bargaining power increase again.
‘Well, I might … Thank you, sir. We have Lily.’
Harry steps forward. ‘So you know who she is?’
‘That’s just what I call her. Lily. Like in water-lilies. For where she was found, see? We’ve had her a few weeks now. No-one has come for her.’
He laughs. A ghastly rasping wheezing sound.
Something bitter rises up in Harry’s throat, but he forces himself to appear unconcerned.
‘I need to view her body. If I may.’
He is confronted by a curious look. A mix of incredulity and suspicion.
‘Why would you want to do that?’
