The kid looked bored; he stared impassively at a patch of ground.
‘The theft happened while your team was on watch. One of your friends was badly injured, wasn’t he?’
‘Terry Morgan?’ The kid rolled his eyes. ‘That chinwipe? He ain’t my friend.’
We all stared at him. ‘Yeah,’ George breathed. ‘That statement I can believe.’
‘You were on the West Gate last night,’ Lockwood went on in a steely voice. ‘If you saw anything, if you know anything that can help, it would be well worth you telling us. Anything that might give us the clue we need.’
The boy shrugged. ‘Are we finished? Good, ’cos I’m missing chow time.’ He jerked a thumb towards the prefab cabin. ‘There’ll still be sandwiches in there. See you.’ He began to swagger away.
Lockwood stood back. He looked up and down the cemetery. No one was coming. He grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck, hoicked him squealing above the grass. ‘As I say,’ he said, ‘we’re not like that Fittes crowd. We don’t go in for slapping people about. We do have other methods, however, that are equally effective. See that chapel? There’s an iron coffin in there. It was occupied, but now it’s empty. Well, it’ll be occupied again in a minute if you don’t start answering my civil questions.’
The kid flicked a tongue over dry lips. ‘Get lost. You’re bluffing.’
‘You think so? You know little Bill Jones of the Putney night watch?’
‘No! I’ve never seen him!’
‘Exactly. He crossed us too. Lucy, George, grab a leg – we’re taking him inside.’
The boy kicked and squeaked, to no avail. We advanced towards the chapel.
‘What do you think?’ Lockwood said. ‘Five minutes in the coffin, see if he talks?’
I considered. ‘Make it ten.’
‘All right, all right!’ The kid was suddenly frantic. ‘I’ll co-operate! Put me down!’
We lowered him to the ground. ‘That’s better,’ Lockwood said. ‘Well then?’
The kid paused to adjust his cap, which now half covered his face. ‘I still reckon you’re bluffing,’ he panted, ‘but I’m missing my sandwiches, so . . .’ He rolled his shoulders as if to gear up his tongue. ‘Yeah, I was on the West Gate all last night. I saw nothing. After you left, no one came through at any time.’
‘You were there until after dawn?’
‘Until after the alarm was raised.’
‘Excellent.’ From nowhere, Lockwood brought forth a coin and tossed it to the boy. ‘There’s more of that if you can help me. Think you can?’
The kid looked hard at the coin. ‘Maybe.’
‘Then keep talking to me now. Come on! We haven’t got time to waste!’ With a sudden spring, Lockwood darted aside into the shadow of the chapel steps; he plunged into the bushes. ‘Come on!’ he called again. ‘This way!’
After a moment’s hesitation the kid’s greed got the better of him. He followed, despite himself. George and I did too.
Lockwood moved speedily, ducking under branches, dodging gravestones choked with thorns, following a trail that only he could see. He left the chapel behind, broke out onto a path, crossed it and plunged into another overgrown section of the cemetery. ‘You’ve confirmed exactly what I thought!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘The thieves found another way in. They got to and from the chapel by keeping to the unfrequented areas – like this bit, for instance, which leads right towards the boundary wall.’
He gave a flying leap, landed on a box-tomb, and clung to the angel atop it as he surveyed the ground beyond. ‘The undergrowth’s too thick that way,’ he mused. ‘But what about over there . . .? Aha! Yes . . . I see a route. We’ll try it!’ Jumping down, he grinned back at the night-watch kid. ‘Nothing went past you last night,’ he said. ‘But what about other nights? You keep your eyes open. Seen any strangers? Relic-men?’
The kid had been scampering to keep up, holding his cap to his head, seemingly mesmerized by the speed and decisiveness of Lockwood’s movements. His hostility had entirely vanished; he held the coin tightly in his grubby hand. ‘I seen some,’ he panted as we set off again. ‘There’s always a few hanging round the cemeteries.’
‘Any in particular?’
‘Couple. They’re well known, always go round together. Saw them a week or two back. Came in during public hours. Workmen had to chase them from the camp.’
‘Excellent!’ Lockwood cried. He was rushing down a grassy aisle between high stones. ‘Two together? Good. Can you describe them?’
‘One, not so much,’ the kid said. ‘Plump bloke, blond hair, scritty moustache. Young, wears black. Name of Duane Neddles.’
George made a sceptical noise that sounded like gas escaping from a rhino. ‘Duane Neddles? Oh, he sounds scary. Sure you’re not making this up?’
‘And the other?’ Lockwood called.
The kid hesitated. ‘He’s got a reputation. A killer. They say he bumped off a rival during a job last year. Maybe I shouldn’t—’
Lockwood stopped suddenly. ‘It was a team of two last night that bashed your colleague,’ he said. ‘Let’s say one was Neddles. Who was the other?’
The kid leaned close, spoke softly. ‘They call him Jack Carver.’
A group of crows rose squalling from the gravestones. Wings cracking, they circled against the sky and flew off over the trees.
Lockwood nodded. He reached inside his coat, brought out a banknote and handed it to the disbelieving kid. ‘I’ll make it worth your while every time you give me decent information. If we find Neddles and Carver, I’ll give you twice that. Understand me? Now, I want Carver’s description.’
‘Carver?’ The boy scratched his chin. ‘Young man in his twenties, as tall as you, a little broader in the shoulders, heavier round the belly. He’s got light red hair, long and straggly. Pale skin, long nose. Narrow eyes, can’t recall the colour. Wears black: black jeans, black biker’s jacket. Carries a work-belt, bit like yours, and an orange rucksack. Oh yeah, and black lace-up boots, like the ones the skinheads wear.’
‘Thanks,’ Lockwood said. ‘I think we’re going to get on well.’ He set off up the path again. Ahead of us loomed the boundary wall, hidden behind a row of spreading limes.
The kid trotted along beside us, busily stuffing the money into some sweatily remote portion of his clothes. George shook his head. ‘Duane Neddles . . . Jack Carver . . . If you’re keen on giving money away so easily, Lockwood, don’t give it to random kids. I can make up silly names too.’
But Lockwood had halted so abruptly we almost bumped into him. ‘Look!’ he cried. ‘I knew it! We’re on the right track!’ He pointed ahead of us. There, lying in shadow beside a tree, was something I had only previously seen for a split second, held in a corpse’s fist. A ragged white cloth, lying crumpled in the grass.
We clustered close, but of course the mirror it had contained was gone.
‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Why ditch it here?’
‘It’s a stinking bit of corpse-rag,’ Lockwood said. ‘I wouldn’t hold onto it for long. And it was dawn by that time. Psychic objects lose their power when the sun is up. They knew it’d be safe to touch the mirror then. Maybe they transferred it to a backpack, in preparation for their climb . . .’
He pointed to the dappled canopy above. Looking up, we saw the spreading branches of the lime, saw the silhouette of the longest branch jutting out against the brightness of the sky. Our eyes ran along it until it reached the boundary wall and disappeared beyond. The rope tied to it could just be seen dangling on the other side.
‘That’s the Regent’s Canal over there,’ Lockwood said. ‘They shinned down, landed on the towpath. Then they were away.’