Summon Up the Blood by R. N. Morris Read Free Book Online Page A

downpour, from which the car’s open-sided canopy provided little protection. ‘Very well, sir.’ He waited a moment for the rain to ease but, as it showed no sign of abating, leapt out anyway. Quinn saw him bend down in front of the car to give the crank half a turn. The Ford juddered into noisy, shaking life, the rattle of the engine drowning out the muted patter of the rain.
    ‘Such a reliable starter!’ said Macadam cheerfully, as he settled back behind the wheel. A clear droplet hung from the tip of his nose. ‘Say what you like about the Model T, but she cannot be beaten for starting.’
    ‘A boon on days like this,’ observed Quinn.
    Macadam eased the car away skilfully. He nodded vigorously, shaking the raindrops loose.
    Quinn moved into the middle of the back seat, the furthest point from the rain splashing in from both sides. ‘It’s a shame the old mortuary at Saint George in the East is no longer in operation, Macadam. I could have walked round there.’
    Macadam snorted dismissively. ‘That was nothing but a primitive shed. I hear the new mortuary at Poplar is equipped with electrical refrigeration units.’
    ‘Is that so?’
    ‘Perhaps I might come in with you to see them, sir?’
    Quinn’s first instinct was to deny Macadam’s request. He wanted to be alone when he confronted the body. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to stay with the car?’
    Macadam must have sensed his resistance. He didn’t push it. ‘What do we have then, sir? An interesting case?’
    ‘Certainly the case does appear to have some unusual features. The body was drained entirely of blood.’
    Macadam gave a whistle. ‘Who’s the victim?’
    ‘Identity unknown, as yet.’
    ‘Anything to go on?’
    ‘He appears to have engaged in unnatural practices with other men.’
    ‘Ah. One of those. In that case, he may have a criminal record, sir. Gross indecency, vagrancy, soliciting. That sort of thing. There could be a mugshot in the Rogues’ Gallery. I take it you have a photograph of the corpse, sir? We might be able to match them up.’
    ‘Good thinking, Macadam. Given his youthfulness, we need not go back too far.’
    ‘We’ll go back as far as it takes, sir.’
    Macadam accelerated to overtake a horse-drawn collier’s van as they pulled out on to Commercial Road. In keeping with the street’s name, the road was interspersed with business premises on both sides, but there was a rundown air to most of them. The traffic was sparse. Clusters of men sheltered beneath shop awnings, their faces an array of skin shades from Nordic to African. The same expression of sullen boredom was engrained on them all, beneath incongruously English flat caps. Sailors without a ship, they could offer little in the way of custom to the local shops. A group of them huddled in the entrance of a beer shop, presumably without the funds to go inside. They scowled across at a ship-breaking concern, as if they held it responsible for their misfortune.
    Through the arch of a railway viaduct, Quinn had a glimpse of the merchant ships in Regent’s Canal Lock. The masts and rigging were stripped, the funnels denuded of smoke, the engines idle: a dejected, sodden vignette. For the briefest of moments he entertained a fantasy of escape, imagining himself borne away on one of these long, low vessels, away from the unrelenting dampness of the English spring to a far-flung, sun-blasted outpost of the Empire. Away, too, from the sickening nastiness of his new case and from the necessity to go where he was now going. The grim photographs of the victim had formed a monochrome area of unease at the centre of his mind, a premonition of impending difficulty and pain.
    But the promise of escape was gone the moment it was glimpsed. The image of the boats now felt like a dream he couldn’t quite recall. There was to be no other end to his journey today than the mortuary.
    Despite his reputation, Quinn had no appetite for the grisly side of the job. He had a horror of