“Opium addiction does not make a person violent, Pitt. I don’t know where on earth you got that idea from. It’s nonsense-dangerous nonsense. I would have thought that a man in your position would have been less…ignorant.” He almost spat the word. Then he seemed to regret it. “I’m sorry…that was…”
“I am aware of the causes of opium addiction,” Pitt spoke quickly, to rescue him. “In many cases it is medically prescribed, for severe pain. Some people can give it up easily enough when the pain is gone. Others can become addicted on a single dose. I mentioned it because I believe the bomber may be addicted, through no fault of his own.”
“It does not make people violent!” Bradshaw repeated intently, his face still almost bloodless.
Pitt’s mind was whirling. Bradshaw spoke so passionately that there had to be someone he loved who had experienced addiction, or did so even now. A son, perhaps? Was he as damaged as Alexander Duncannon? It must be terrible for any parent, but for one in the police, who saw what it actually brought, not in nice clean words but in the reality of the flesh, the real pain, the nightmares and nausea, the fears and despair, it must be even worse-if anything could be!
What was the kindest thing he could do? Say he understood? He didn’t, not in more than imagination. Or pretend he had not seen? Give the man an illusion of privacy?
He must answer.
“No, sir. I think it possible that this occurred because a friend of his was victim of police corruption, or so he thought. This friend, a fellow addict, was blamed for a crime our man was certain he had not committed, but on police testimony he was tried, convicted, and hanged. Our man has attempted since then to get the case reinvestigated, and no one will listen to him. At least this is his belief.”
Bradshaw cleared his throat again, as if he did not trust his voice. “Is this…is this true?”
“I don’t know. As I said, it is his belief. And for the purpose of driving his actions, that is all that would be necessary.”
“And he is still addicted to opium?”
“Yes. It is killing him, which he knows, so he has very little to lose.”
“Poor devil. Do you know who his supplier is?” Bradshaw’s voice was not much more than a whisper.
“No. He won’t tell me. I am not surprised. The man stands between him and the agony of withdrawal. I believe if it is sudden enough, in some cases it can lead to a terrible death.”
“Indeed,” Bradshaw said hoarsely.
Pitt hesitated, looking for something to say that was not shallow, as if he had neither brain nor heart. He could not help believing that Bradshaw had someone intensely close to him who was in just such a private hell.
“What are you going to do?” Bradshaw asked.
“I don’t know,” Pitt answered carefully. “First of all I must make sure that it is as I believe.”
“And if it is?”
“Arrest him. If we hold him in custody I will see that the police surgeon gives him that sufficient to manage his pain. I can’t leave him free: he’ll bomb again. He wants us to reopen the case.”
“But you said the other man was hanged!”
“He was. Our man’s whole purpose is to clear his name.”
“Who is it?”
“I’ll tell you that, sir, if I am right. Until then I must save those close to him from any breath of scandal.”
Bradshaw’s face was gray.
“For God’s sake, be careful. Suppliers of opium, or any other drug, have no pity. They’ll kill you, if you threaten them. I mean it, Pitt. They will!”
“Yes, I daresay they will,” Pitt agreed.
Bradshaw started to say something else, and then changed his mind.
Pitt ended the awkwardness by excusing himself, closing the door behind him. He walked away exhausted by the pity that had seared through him for Alexander, for his family, for Bradshaw, who he was now certain was trapped in the same hell.
Even as he went down the steps into the street, he was aware that such grief could touch anyone. Happiness was fragile, and infinitely precious.
Chapter 11
Pitt found it even harder to contact Alexander this time, but it was imperative that he do so. He could not much longer put off arresting him, no matter what he had promised Jack or how much pity he felt for Alexander. And when that happened he would lose the chance to question him and uncover the important facts he was still missing.
He did not expect Alexander to tell him everything, but if Alexander wanted to be believed, then he would be able to give a list of the people he had spoken to, the times and places, at least roughly. Pitt could check them. An example of Alexander’s handwriting could be compared with the Anno Domini notes. It all needed proving. Above all, there was the question of the supplier who had failed to turn up at the meeting where Tyndale had been shot. Why? And how did Ednam even know of the proposed rendezvous? There was something major missing.
More than that, Pitt needed to find proof that Alexander really had tried to raise the Dylan Lezant case again and make someone listen to his account. He could start looking without knowing when the attempts began, and to whom they were directed, but it would certainly take far longer than if Alexander told him.
Pitt found Alexander eventually, at about eleven o’clock at night, staggering along an alley a hundred yards from his flat. He had bumped into a lamppost and was standing, leaning against it, dazed in its ghostly light.
Pitt was tired, cold, and short-tempered. It was the third time he had passed this way and he had been ready to give up and go home.
When he saw Alexander’s face his anger vanished. He stepped forward and took the young man by both arms, as if he expected to have to support his weight.
“Alexander!” he said. “Alexander!”
Alexander blinked and looked at him hard for a moment before recognizing him. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want now?” He sounded not aggressive, just infinitely tired.
“When did you last eat?” Pitt asked him.
“No idea. Why? Does it matter?”
Pitt did not know. Food did you little good if you could not hold it in your stomach long enough to digest it.
“Come with me,” he said firmly, as if he would not accept a refusal. “At least get warm. There’s a place along here that’s open all night.”
Alexander stared at him. “What do you want?”
“Details. I want to know all the things you did to try to make them listen to you and look further into Lezant’s case.”
“Why?” Alexander stared at him, still leaning his weight against the lamppost. He blinked several times, trying to focus his mind.
“I want to know who ignored you,” Pitt replied.
Alexander shrugged. “Who gives a damn now?”
“I do.”
Alexander slumped and Pitt was obliged to hold him up so he did not slide into a heap on the pavement. He would be hard to raise up again.
“Come on!” he said sharply. “You’ll freeze out here. Come and get warm inside, and at least have a hot cup of tea.”
Alexander made an effort, and allowed Pitt to lift him. Possibly because he hadn’t the energy to fight anymore.
Half an hour later they were both warmed by the pleasant clatter of a cafe open for workers all night. They had hot, over-strong tea with too much sugar in it. Pitt all but gagged on it, but Alexander drank it without apparent awareness of its taste. He ate half a bacon sandwich, and seemed rather better for it.
He looked at Pitt curiously. He returned to the earlier subject. “Why do you want to know so exactly? Are you going to prosecute me for it? No, of course not. It’s evidence, isn’t it? It gives me a motive for killing Ednam and his men. They ignored me. And if I had found proof, then they would have hanged, and not Dylan.” He blinked, knowing he had made an error. “No…that’s out of order, isn’t it? I mean, out of sequence. I went on trying to make them listen, after Dylan’s death. It’s to hang me, isn’t it…for the bombing? Give me a motive. Otherwise why would I?” He shook his head very slightly. “No evidence. No one saw me, or you’d have arrested me already.”