Sweet Things Dying - Chapter XXVII

In this instalment, Cole and Quinn race to get answers...

XXVII

Cole allowed himself a few more seconds on his back. The tension in his arms eased and his breathing steadied. Boots shuffled up and hands pulled him to his feet. He and the policemen carefully made their way off the roof until they were once more inside of the barbershop.

He flexed his fingers over the stove and awaited Quinn. In the minutes that passed more constables arrived and more detectives were sent for. A stream of officers bobbed in and out of the backroom and along the street, trailing like blue ants toward the spot where Emilia Cohen had fallen.

Cole had just begun to warm up when Quinn marched in from the street.

“You all right then?” the inspector asked.

“I survived.”

“Can’t say the same for the girl. Her head’s split apart like a nut. Her brains are in the gutter.”

“Sounds fitting.”

“I have to ask, did you let her drop Cole?”

“No, I can honestly say I did not. But it bothers me not in the least that she did.”

Quinn snorted. “A stupid thing to say. She could have told us something.”

“She did.” Cole relayed the girl’s last words, first for the inspector then for a constable who wrote it all into a notebook.

Cole asked, “What of your man who fell through the roof?”

Quinn said, “He’ll be all right. A bad sprain is all. Got some nastier scrapes and bruises on the men back there.” He nodded toward the partition where the struggle with Cohen had occurred. “We got him though. Buckled and in the Maria. Tough bugger. Was throwing cops around like dolls.” He shook his head. “The poor woman’s being carted to hospital,” he added.

Cole wrinkled his brow: “Woman?”

“Yes, another unfortunate. Was on the table when we stormed the place. Cohen was elbow deep between her legs. She’s bleeding awful bad – down there. Can’t say if she’ll survive. The bloody man’s a butcher. Hardly knew to stop.”

“May I?”

Quinn shrugged and showed Cole through to the backroom. It was a menagerie of the grotesque – an amateur surgical theatre, a chemist’s shop and a butcher’s yard all packed into a small space. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Awful stains, old and new, turned the floor copper-brown and told ghastly tales of the room’s use, going back many months. Fresh red smears splotched the surface of a makeshift surgical table in the centre of the room, betraying the latest of horrors to have occurred.