BRODIE
The shopkeeper at Mellins Food shop shook his head.
“I heard about it. Sad bit of news. Didn’t notice anything unusual. Constable Martin was well thought of around here, with a new partner that was learning the ways of the street. Seemed like a nice young chap.
“We felt safe with Constable Martin about. When he was on early patrol, he would purchase food from me shop to take home to the missus.
“It won’t be the same. They’ll send some other bloke out, but he won’t have the same way with those about the Circus.”
“Aye, no one saw anything unusual,” Conner muttered as they met later at the end of Regent Street. “I also checked withcity transportation dispatch the next street over. There’s no record of any driver that pulled a late-night fare around the time Dooley claims that Joe’s partner found him on Regent Street.”
Brodie nodded. It was a familiar answer for both men.
“I’ll have a word with old Mick and Rafferty. They may be done with the MET as well, but they hear things. Mick will be at a pub by this time, and Rafferty…” His voice trailed off.
“He can usually be found with a certain woman.” There was a grin. “Not that I would be interruptin’ anything. He’s been complainin’ about ‘things’ not wot they once were, if ye get my meanin’.”
He did. There had been a conversation or two about that in the past.
“Not that I suppose ye have any difficulty of that nature,” Conner added.
Brodie let that pass.
The congestion at the thoroughfare gradually eased, and the lights along Piccadilly Circus lit up the darkening sky.
Conner rubbed his hands together against the cold that came with the misty rain that had begun.
Brodie noticed the gesture as well as the stiffness in the man’s gait as they met once more on the street, remnants from too many years spent walking the patrol as they had the past hours.
“See wot Mick and Rafferty might know. Leave word with Mr. Cavendish if ye learn something,” Brodie replied. “I’ll see wot others may have heard on the street. There’s usually something to be learned when a man with the MET goes down.”
“Mr. Brown?” Conner inquired.
Brodie nodded.
“Watch yer back, lad. Ye might no longer be with the MET, but ye are well known among those who wear the uniform. Have a care for some yob out to make a name for himself.”
Brodie nodded. There was a time in the past when he had been called that, among other things, in his time on the street.
They parted, Conner for the pub where he could find a pint and a conversation with old Mick. Rafferty had retired out with an injury just after Brodie joined the service, and he had not known him well.
There had been talk…there was always talk. It seemed that the old Irishman might have been on the take with one of the street gangs. He did seem to live far more comfortably than others in the uniform. Making a bit of money on the side. It was not unusual with a man’s usual pay of twenty-five shillings sixpence weekly. Half usually went for rent of a small flat, that left little over for food or other necessities.
Brodie had shared a flat with Munro for a time, though he was rarely there but working some enterprise on the streets. He didn’t inquire wot those enterprises might have been, though he heard rumors on the street.
His pay increased to three pounds fourteen shillings when he made inspector, then four pounds and eight weekly by the time he left.
Brodie turned up his collar as he waved down a cab and set off for his meeting with Algernon Brown at Bethnal Green, where he operated out of a tavern near the brewery.
Not that the man used his given name, as Brodie had learned in his time with the MET. On the street he was simply known asMr. Brown,along with a dangerous reputation.
“And I’ll thank you not to use the name,” Brown had once told him. “It’s not good for business.”
Brodie understood, considering the man’s business—graft, extortion, smuggling among those who would cut a man’s throat just for lookin’ at him wrong. The name didn’t command fear or respect.
It was well into the night when the cabman delivered him to the edge of Bethnal Green. From there, he walked the familiar slums, doss houses, and poor tenements, with a watchful eye to the shadows.
He knew the area well, although the MET rarely patrolled this part of London because of the crime and high murder rate, where a man could easily disappear in a quarrel over a coin and never be seen again.
