Peebles adjusted his coat. ‘You reacted so promptly, Sergeant.’
‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ said Leeming. ‘It’s something that the superintendent keeps drumming into our heads.’ He looked his companion up and down. ‘Did you get hurt?’
‘I’ll have a few bruises, that’s all, but I fancy I inflicted far more damage on them. To be honest, I felt rather cheated that it was over so quickly.’ He looked under the bridge. ‘Is there any point in trying to pursue them?’
‘None at all – they know the backstreets and we don’t. They came off worse, that’s the main thing. It will make them think twice about accosting people in the future.’ He offered his hand. ‘Well done, Constable – and welcome to Manchester!’
Grinning broadly, Peebles shook his hand. The brawl had had one positive result for him. Having fought off his attackers with vigour, he now felt accepted by Leeming. It was a step forward.
Silas Adnam was more interested in talking about himself than about his daughter but Colbeck let him ramble on. The story was a familiar one to the detective. He’d seen any number of instances where a combination of grief and alcohol had brought about a man’s ruin. The wonder was that Adnam had not dragged his daughter down with him. Entering domestic service, Irene had soon shown her mettle and been rewarded with more responsibility. Her father was proud of the fact that she’d been promoted within her first household yet surprised that she’d not stayed there long. In fact, she seemed to change jobs quite often, eventually rising to the position of governess. Adnam spoke about her with an amalgam of smugness and concern, talking in fulsome terms about Irene’s cleverness while worrying that he was so rarely able to see her.
Finally, Colbeck had to shatter the old man’s illusions.
‘Did you know that the police are searching for her?’ he asked.
Adnam blanched. ‘Why on earth should they do that?’
‘Your daughter has committed a series of crimes, sir.’
‘That’s a damnable lie, Inspector! I brought Irene up to respect law and order. There’s not a dishonest bone in her body.’
‘Then I suggest that you talk to Inspector Boone. He has kept a record of her activities in Manchester and the surrounding area. She does not always use her real name, of course, but there’s no doubt that she has had a succession of victims.’
‘Victims?’ repeated the other. ‘How can a harmless, decent, young woman like Irene have victims? She’s a governess with a respectable family in London.’
‘Do you happen to have their name and address?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘That’s probably because these people do not exist.’
‘But they do,’ said Adnam, desperately. ‘How else would Irene have earned that money? I don’t have their address because Irene is forbidden to have any letters sent to her.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘Yes – otherwise I’d keep in regular touch with her.’
‘She’s been lying to you, Mr Adnam,’ said Colbeck, levelly.
‘I refuse to believe that!’
Colbeck took a deep breath before recounting details of the escape of Jeremy Oxley. He explained the role played by a female accomplice. He also pointed out that the couple had recently taken part in a robbery in Birmingham. The money that Adnam assumed had been saved by his daughter during her time as a governess had instead been stolen. In short, since her father had received a number of similar payments over the years, he had been living unwittingly on the proceeds of crime.
‘Do you still claim that she works in London?’ asked Colbeck.
Adnam was uncertain. ‘It’s what she told me.’
‘Did you never ask yourself some obvious questions? Why would any daughter take a train all the way to Manchester to see her father, then spend less than ten minutes with him? Why didn’t Irene let you take her to the railway station? Why has she been so secretive all these years? Why does she refuse to give you the addresses of the places at which she pretends to work?’ He stepped in close. ‘It pains me to tell you that Irene Adnam is a thief and a killer. She is working with a man whose criminal record includes violence and murder. It’s your duty to help us to find them.’
Adnam was disconsolate. Pride in what he saw as his daughter’s achievements was the one last source of pleasure in his life. It kept him afloat in the noisome swamp where he lived. Of equal importance was the fact that Irene supplied him – albeit irregularly – with money. At a stroke, the major prop in his grim existence had been cut from under him. There would be no more cash from Irene and no more opportunities to boast about her in the Eagle and Child. In fact, he would never be able to mention her name again. Adnam had refused to believe it at first but Colbeck had been authoritative. The truth was unavoidable. Why else would a Scotland Yard detective take the trouble to come to Deansgate if he did not have irrefutable proof of Irene’s involvement in horrifying crimes? Adnam had fathered a monster. It was too much for him to bear. Bringing his hands up to his face, he let out a roar of pain then began to sob uncontrollably.
‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ suggested Colbeck, gently. ‘I want you to tell me once again what happened when your daughter came to see you. The most insignificant detail may turn out to be useful to us. I need you to rack your brain, Mr Adnam.’
The old man looked up. ‘She’s gone – Irene has gone for ever.’
‘Do you want her to stay free to kill again?’
‘No, no!’ cried Adnam. ‘Perish the thought.’
‘Then help us to catch her and the man with whom she lives.’
Adnam sat up and used a filthy handkerchief to wipe away his tears. He was then in the grip of a fit of coughing that lasted for a couple of minutes. When he recovered, he turned to Colbeck.
‘I’ve lost her, Inspector,’ he said, sorrowfully.
‘I fear that you lost her a long time ago, sir.’
‘It’s like a death. I feel bereft. Irene was all that I had between me and despair.’ He stifled another sob. ‘Have you ever lost a child?’
‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘but I once lost someone I loved dearly. It’s the reason this case has a personal dimension for me. However long it takes, I’ll track down Jeremy Oxley and I fully expect to arrest your daughter at the same time.’
* * *
The cottage was in a leafy suburb of London. Built centuries earlier, it had a timber frame, small, mullioned windows, a solid oak front door, a thatched, overhanging roof and a well-tended garden at the front and the rear. Ivy covered one side of the facade while the other was ablaze with roses. There was such a sense of rural isolation that Irene could not believe they were actually in the capital city. The moment she set eyes on the house, her ambition was ignited. She wanted to live in such a quaint and captivating place, far away from the industrial centres to which she was accustomed. In addition, Irene yearned for an existence that was free from crime, the kind of quiet, uneventful life that people could expect in an area like this.
Having been told that their host had committed murder, she faced the prospect of meeting him with slight trepidation but it soon evaporated. Gordon Younger was a plump man of middle years with a reassuring smile. His bald head gleamed, his cheeks were red and his goatee beard was his only facial hair. Susanna, his wife, was even more rotund, her clothing carefully tailored to hide some of her contours. She was a poised, educated, middle-class woman who looked as if her natural milieu would have been a country vicarage. Clearly, the Youngers were not short of money. Their cottage was expensively furnished and there were gilt-framed paintings of hunting scenes on the walls.
Astonished to see Oxley after a long absence, they gave him and Irene an effusive welcome. Glad to offer accommodation to the visitors, neither Younger nor his wife asked why they had come to London. They simply accepted that their guests had a need and were happy to fulfil it. What struck Irene about the couple was the pleasure they seemed to take in each other’s company. There was an unforced togetherness about them that she envied. She wondered if she and Oxley would ever be able to achieve something similar. When she was shown up to the guest room by Susanna, she took the opportunity to probe a little.