City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [99]
‘Is there any particular reason you need to find out more about these gangs?’
‘I came across some bad meat,’ Jeryd replied finally. ‘Bought some steaks of questionable origin from a trader who wouldn’t open up. Probably nothing in it, but I just want value for money. This’ll be pursued in my free time of course – everything done by the book.’
‘Do you have a lead?’ Nanzi asked cautiously.
‘I’ve got a name. Malum.’
‘King of the underworld,’ Nanzi whispered in awe.
‘So I’ve heard. I’m guessing there’s more than a few people in this institution prepared to turn a blind eye to such kings of the underworld. A little detective work is in order.’
*
Jeryd and Nanzi spent the rest of the day chasing rumours.
From bar to bistro to subterranean dens, they found themselves being passed among some of the most brutal-looking characters in the underworld. Gang types: Jeryd knew the look of them all right, the things they were saying to each other through their glances. It helped to have Nanzi with him – they displayed a little more restraint while she was alongside him.
Jeryd made sure that word got around that the Inquisition wanted to talk to Malum. The trail of leads seemed endless, but towards the end of that day Jeryd and Nanzi were provided with a firm address by a scruffy young kid with bad teeth. Not just an address – an address and a booth number.
Strange . . .
The kid insisted, ‘Come alone. Lose the woman.’ Then he scuttled off into the crowded iren.
Nanzi guided Jeryd through the snow to a back alley somewhere in Scarhouse, then she left him, as requested, alone and without another word. He was grateful for her tactful attitude.
A wooden board hung decrepitly above an iron door, a garishly coloured sign reading ‘Peep Show’.
A knock on the door and a hatch slammed open. ‘Fuck you want? We ain’t open.’
‘I’m looking for Malum. I was invited here.’ Jeryd glanced furtively behind him as the snow began again, always coming and going in bursts. A fiacre clattered by and Jeryd pulled down his hat; this was no place for him to be seen outside, in a strange city or not.
‘You the investigator?’ the voice slurred back.
‘Investigator Jeryd, yeah.’
The door clunked open and he was beckoned into the darkness by a grubby-looking dark-haired guy barely out of his teens.
‘I’m looking for booth three, apparently.’ Jeryd held up a slip of paper to the young man, who proceeded to ignore it completely.
The dark corridor smelled vaguely of stale incense. He could feel the enveloping damp. This place reminds me of an Inquisition gaol. Voices drifted towards him from rooms out of sight; conversations stuttering to a halt as they walked past. Now and then he heard a groan or two, then strange guttural noises he couldn’t recognize.
‘In there.’ The young man gestured to one side.
‘Thanks.’ Jeryd now faced a narrow wooden door with the number three carved into it, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
A wooden stool had been placed before what looked like a large window; only blackness was apparent beyond. A bucket, some towels, there was very little else, just the bare cold stone. Jeryd shuffled towards the stool and peered at the darkened glass, his pulse quickening in the silence.
The tension mounted as he continued staring into the weird window, but he couldn’t discern a thing. He tapped it with his knuckle – this was thick stuff.
Light suddenly sparked and flared on the other side of the glass – where he now noticed a figure sitting slumped in a chair, wearing a stylish long coat, and a mask, half-concealing short brown hair. Lingerie and chains were draped over a meat hook to one side, and three or four silver-framed mirrors leaned against the walls, presenting this well-clad figure from unusual angles.
‘Investigator Jeryd,’ the man said. ‘I hear you’ve been