Read Chapter 22: After the Escape

The lifeboat shed at North Quay stank of creosote and brine, but it was dry, and the lock on the door had held for three hours now. Arthur sat with his back against the corrugated iron, watching Eddie Marsh breathe. The man's face was the colour of tallow, and his wrists were raw circles of torn skin where the manacles had bitten, but his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that no longer looked like it might stop.

Arthur had carried him half a mile through the dock lanes before Eddie's legs gave out entirely. They'd passed a pub called The Cormorant, its windows glowing yellow, and for one mad moment Arthur had considered marching in and asking for a room. But the barman there knew Victor's people—everyone did, in this part of the docks—so he'd kept walking until he found the boatyard, and the shed, and the lock that had yielded to a judder bar from his coat pocket.

Water dripped somewhere. A gull cried overhead, thin and far away.

Eddie's eyes opened. They found Arthur in the dark and held him there.

"Where are we?"

"North Quay boatyard. Old storage shed. No one's been near us."

Eddie tried to sit up. Arthur put a hand on his chest and pushed him back down, gently.

"Easy. You lost a lot of blood. Whoever sewed you up did a butcher's job."

"Victor's man. Not a doctor." Eddie's voice was a rasp, like gravel dragged across glass. "Told me he learned on dogs."

"He wasn't lying." Arthur pulled back the collar of Eddie's shirt, revealing the crude black stitches running from his collarbone to his armpit. The wound had stopped weeping, but the skin around it was angry and hot. "We need to get you somewhere proper. A nurse, at least."

Eddie shook his head. The movement cost him, and he winced. "No one. Not yet. Victor will have the usual places watched."

"He will. That's why we're staying here tonight." Arthur unscrewed the cap on the canteen he'd filled from a hose outside and held it to Eddie's lips. The man drank in small, desperate swallows, water spilling down his chin, and when he was done he lay back and closed his eyes.

Arthur watched him for a long moment, then reached into his coat and brought out the diary.

Eddie's eyes snapped open at the sound of the pages. "You still have it."

"I do." Arthur ran his thumb along the edge of the binding, feeling the ridge he'd discovered hours ago but hadn't had a moment to investigate. "You said there was a list hidden in here."

"Under the spine. Cut a slit, I sewed it in myself before Victor took me. He had me searched twice and never found it." A ghost of a smile crossed Eddie's face. "He thought I was stupid. I let him."

Arthur worked his fingernail into the seam at the bottom of the spine. The stitching gave way with a soft pop, and a folded sheet of paper slid out, thin as onion skin, covered in typewritten lines.

He held it up to the sliver of moonlight coming through the gap in the door.

"Rogers Street. Cheapside. The Ironmonger's Lane depot." Names, addresses, dates. "What is this?"

"Victor's work." Eddie's voice was stronger now, as if the confession itself was giving him life. "Every robbery he's pulled in the last four years. The fences he used, the railwaymen he bribed, the loads he took. Dates and amounts. It's all there."

Arthur lowered the paper. "Why did you keep it?"

"Because I was going to bring him down." Eddie's eyes were bright in the dark, and for a moment he looked less like a dying man and more like the policeman in the photograph Arthur had studied in the Soho safe house. "I was undercover, Arthur. Railway Police. Three years I spent working my way into Victor's crew, building trust, feeding them scraps so they'd never look too hard at the big jobs. I was supposed to be the one who stopped the mail train, not by stopping it, but by being there when they hit it. There was an operation in motion. Plans. Backup."

"And Victor found out."

"Not found out." Eddie's jaw tightened. "Sold. One of my own men turned. Granger, from the divisional office. He took Victor's money and gave him my name." He coughed, a wet sound that rattled in his chest. "Victor didn't kill me. He wanted to know who else was in the operation. Who my handlers were. I told him nothing for six days."

Arthur thought of the warehouse. The smell of it. The stains on the floor.

"They were going to dispose of you this week," he said quietly.

"I know." Eddie closed his eyes. "I heard them talking. They were waiting for someone to come from London to do it properly. A professional, they said. I was worth more to them alive than dead, so long as there was a chance I'd talk." He opened his eyes and looked at Arthur. "You ruined their plans. Whoever you are."

"Arthur Phelps. I was supposed to stop the train."

Eddie studied him for a long moment. "The signalman. Yes. Victor's talked about you since you went missing. He's been in a fury about it. Couldn't understand how a man he'd picked for a simple job had managed to slip through his fingers."

Arthur almost laughed. "Simple job."

"To him, everything's simple. Other people do the work, he takes the money." Eddie shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. "But you need to understand who you're dealing with, Phelps. Victor's not the man in charge. He never was."

"The Baron."

Eddie's eyebrows rose. "You know that name."

"Your man in the warehouse gave it to me before you did."

"Then you know more than most. The Baron is the one who plans the jobs, funds the operation, takes the largest cut. Victor is just the muscle, the one who handles the rough end of things. He answers to the Baron. Everyone answers to the Baron."

"You've met him?"

"No one meets him." Eddie shook his head. "He communicates through intermediaries. Marlow's one of them. There are others, but I never learned their names. He operates through layers, like an onion. You peel one and there's always another underneath."

"And Victor?"

"Victor's the only one I've ever seen face to face. He's the one who gives orders, takes the beatings, does the dirty work." Eddie paused. "But I know one thing about the Baron, because I put the pieces together from Victor's conversations. The Baron works for the government."

Arthur's blood went cold. "Marlow has connections. I saw the files."

"More than connections. The Baron used to be in the intelligence services. MI5, maybe military intelligence. He left—or was pushed—and he took his tradecraft with him. Turned it to robbery instead of espionage." Eddie swallowed. "The men who work for him aren't just criminals. They're soldiers. People he knew from his service days. Men who owe him their loyalty."

"And Victor?"

"Victor was one of his best. That's why the Baron sent him to handle this job. The mail train was supposed to be Victor's retirement job. A last score before he disappeared."

Arthur turned the list over in his hands. "If I leak this, it'll destroy Victor. But it won't touch the Baron."

"No. It'll make him cautious. And a cautious Baron is a dangerous man." Eddie met Arthur's eyes. "You have to decide what you're doing, Phelps. Are you running, or are you fighting?"

Arthur looked down at the list. Names and dates. Addresses in neat type. The evidence of four years of crime, of men hurt, of lives broken. He thought about his father, the coded message, the safe house full of photographs. About the diary that had taken a bullet meant for him.

"I was running," he said slowly. "I think I still am. But I didn't go through all this just to fade into the background and hope Victor forgets me."

"He won't forget you. You took his prize. You freed his prisoner. You made him look stupid in front of the Baron."

"Then I might as well give him a reason to remember me." Arthur folded the list and put it back in his pocket. "I know a journalist. Tabloid man, works the crime beat. He's been trying to get Victor's scalp for years."

Eddie's eyes widened. "You're going to hand it to him."

"I'm going to feed it to him in pieces. Small enough that no one can trace it back to me, big enough that it does real damage." Arthur looked down at the diary in his hands, then at the man who'd died and come back to protect it. "We're going to take Victor down. Then we'll worry about the Baron."

A long silence settled over the shed. Outside, the gulls had quieted. The water had stilled in its rhythm, the tide turning somewhere out in the black of the river.

Eddie let out a long breath. "I thought I was going to die in that warehouse. I made my peace with it. I told myself the work was done—that someone would find the list eventually, that it wouldn't be wasted." He looked at Arthur. "I didn't believe it. Not really."

"What changed?"

"You." Eddie's voice was almost fond. "You came through that door with a paperclip and a madman's courage, and you dragged me out of hell. That changes a man's thinking."

Arthur sat back against the iron wall and watched the first grey light of dawn creep across the floor of the shed. It would be light soon. They'd need to move before the dock workers arrived, find somewhere proper for Eddie to rest.

But for now, just for a moment, he let himself breathe.

He'd freed a man. He had a list. He had a plan.

Tomorrow he'd put all three to use.