A Lesser Evil (50 page)

‘How old is he?’

Johnny shrugged. ‘About sixty I’d say.’E had the WestEnd sewn up when I was still a nipper. Keeps ’imself fit ’an all.’

Dan was not going to be put off. To him a man of sixty, whether fit or not, could be induced to talk. All he needed to know was where to look for him, and he’d work out the rest of his plan when he’d checked that out.

‘He can’t be surrounded by his men all the time,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got to pick a moment when he’s alone.’

Johnny nodded, then reluctantly said that the man had a big house near Brentwood in Essex. He listed the names of some of the clubs he owned and told Dan that he ran his empire from an office in St Anne’s Court in Soho.

‘That’s all I need.’ Dan drank down the last of his tea and got up, grinning wolfishly at Johnny. ‘I’ll get up there right now.’

‘Don’t, mate.’ Johnny grabbed his arm. ‘You can’t, ’e’s too big for you. Far too big fer me an ’all. I can’t let you do this. I don’t want you found in the river.’

‘He won’t be expecting one man to come after him,’ Dan said, brushing down the jacket of his suit with his hand. It was the one he’d bought to marry Fifi and he’d worn it ever since Clara and Harry arrived in London so he’d look outwardly respectable. ‘He might be tough-mob-handed, but I doubt he’ll be as quick on his feet as me when he’s on his own, and I’ll be fighting for my wife’s life, so it won’t be easy to put me down.’

‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ Johnny said with a sigh, but there was admiration in his blue eyes. ‘Hang on a bit while I round up some of the lads to ’elp?’

‘No, I’m not going to involve anyone else,’ Dan said resolutely.

Johnny turned and opened an old filing cabinet, rummaged around under papers and drew out a cloth bag. ‘If you must go at least take this’un,’ he said, as he undid the tie. He removed some oiled rag and there was a small pistol. He put it in Dan’s hand. ‘It’s in good working order, I’ve looked after it. Do you know anything about guns?’

Dan nodded, looking down at it. ‘Yeah, I did my National Service. But I don’t want it. I’d rather tear him apart with my own hands.’

‘Don’t be a prat, it’ll be your life or ’is and this’ll give you a fighting chance,’ Johnny said as he reached back into the cabinet and brought out a box of cartridges.

Dan thought for a second and decided the man might be right, so he took them, loaded the gun and put it into his pocket, then gave the rest of the cartridges back to Johnny. ‘Thanks, mate. I won’t use it unless I have to. I owe you one.’

‘All you owe me is to come back here in one piece,’ Johnny said gruffly. ‘Good luck, mate.’

It was still raining when Dan came out of Leicester Square tube station, and checking on a tourist map he found out where St Anne’s Court was. Ten minutes later he’d been up and down it twice, and now he was perched on a stool in a coffee bar, drinking a coffee, smoking a cigarette and eyeing up the building opposite.

Trueman’s office appeared to be above the dirty-book shop, and surprisingly the door that led to it was open, revealing a narrow, uncarpeted staircase which looked as if it hadn’t been swept for years. He could see a fluorescent light on the ceiling of the office above, but not who was in there.

He could feel the hardness of the gun in his pocket, and he thought he ought to feel safer with it. But he didn’t, he didn’t like the feeling it gave him at all. What he wanted to do was punch the lights out of the man who was holding Fifi. Punch him and kick him until he told him where she was, then beat him some more, and only then, when he felt he’d maimed him for life, was he going to feel better.

There was a mirror on the wall beside him, and it seemed odd that the rage he felt inside didn’t show on his face. He looked normal – clean-shaven, wearing a sparkling white shirt, a blue striped tie and his wedding suit. He didn’t even look like a workman, more like a bank clerk.

But that was just as well, because he was going up into that office now, and he’d got to play at being an office worker who’d lost his way, while he checked the place out. He stubbed out his cigarette, smiled at the girl behind the counter, and walked out of the door and across the Court.

The tapping of the typewriter grew louder as he climbed the stairs. At the top was a half-glazed door. That was a further surprise as he’d expected the place would be like Fort Knox. He knocked, but opened it immediately and went in.

There was a woman of about thirty behind the desk wearing a red blouse. She was plain with glasses and straight, lank brown hair. She stopped typing and smiled. An open door beside her desk clearly led to Trueman’s office, judging by the big leather swivel chair in there. It wasn’t much of an office for a man with a sizable empire, and it was almost as chaotic as Johnny’s.

‘Can I help you?’ the woman said.

‘I’m the temp you booked,’ Dan said. ‘From Alfred Marks.’

She looked puzzled. ‘We haven’t booked a temp,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right address?’

‘I hope so,’ Dan said, giving her one of what Fifi had always called his winning smiles. He made a great show of feeling in his pockets, and finally pulled out the piece of paper he’d scribbled on earlier. ‘Number six, St Anne’s Court,’ he read. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes,’ she said, frowning. ‘But Mr Trueman didn’t tell me to expect anyone from an agency.’

‘Is he here to ask?’ Dan asked, slipping off his wet raincoat and holding it over his arm.

‘No, he’s not I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t normally come in until one. I can’t phone him either because he’s out at one of his businesses.’

‘Oh dear,’ Dan said, looking downcast. ‘This isn’t a very good start. I’ve only just come up to London and I was really pleased when I got offered this job straight away.’

Dan’s Wiltshire accent had grown a lot less pronounced since he’d been working in London, but he laid it on thick for the woman. ‘It would have been nice to work with you too.’

She blushed and dropped her eyes. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

Dan told her he came from Trowbridge, and played the country boy up in the big city for all he was worth, telling her how confusing he found London, and how expensive everything was. It seemed to do the trick as he could see her getting more relaxed and interested in him by the minute. He found out her name was Janice, and told her he’d got a room in Kentish Town and that he really wanted to work in a bank but he’d decided to do some temporary agency work until he’d found his way about.

‘I was knocked out when they sent me to Soho,’ he said, grinning at her like a Cheshire cat. ‘It must be really exciting working here.’

She laughed. ‘The Soho you mean doesn’t get going till after the shops and offices close,’ she said. ‘I never see it.’

‘Surely your boyfriend brings you up to the clubs and stuff at night?’ he said.

‘I haven’t got one,’ she said. ‘But ordinary people like me don’t come up here anyway. I don’t think I’d like it much either, it’s bad enough seeing the people who work at Mr Trueman’s clubs and coffee bars during the day. None of them are my kind of people.’

Dan feigned innocent surprise that her boss owned such places, and asked her what these people were like.

‘Well, they’re a bit rough,’ she said, clearly aware she mustn’t be too indiscreet. ‘Tough but dim men, women who’ve had a hard life.’

Through all this Dan was taking in everything in the two intercommunicating offices. Behind Janice’s desk another door was open just wide enough to see into a small cloakroom. There was only the one way in and out, and the windows which opened on to St Anne’s Court were overlooked on the other side by what looked like a disused storeroom.

‘The boss runs clubs and coffee bars?’ he exclaimed. ‘I was told it was a packaging company, they said I’d be doing invoices.’

‘I think you’ve got the wrong place then,’ she said, looking very disappointed. ‘This is Trueman’s Enterprises. What name did they give you?’

He made a show of consulting his paper again. ‘You’re gonna think I’m a really dumb country boy,’ he grinned. ‘It’s called Truscot’s, not Trueman’s. I’d better go and phone the agency and tell them they’ve given me the wrong address.’

‘You can use this phone,’ she said, indicating the one on her desk.

‘I can’t take advantage of a lady’s phone,’ he said. ‘But do you get out for lunch? I’d like to buy you one for being so kind.’

He could see the delight in her eyes, and guessed she didn’t often get chatted up.

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, blushing as red as her blouse. ‘I can go when Mr Trueman gets here. I usually have to take letters to the post and go to the bank for him.’

‘What does he do when you aren’t here?’ Dan asked.

She giggled girlishly. ‘Swears at people down the phone mostly I suspect. Messes up the pile of letters I’ve left for him to sign, and fills the place with cigar smoke.’

‘Doesn’t sound as if you like him much,’ Dan said.

She sighed. ‘He’s not an easy man to like. But he pays well and I run the place on my own most of the time. When I get back from lunch he usually goes out again, it’s rare that we’re both in here together for more than a couple of hours.’

Dan felt a surge of delight that he’d come to the one place where the man was vulnerable. He had expected that his office would be impregnable and full of people.

‘Shall I meet you in Joe Lyons in Leicester Square? I know where that is,’ Dan suggested.

‘Okay,’ she said with a shy smile. ‘I’ll have to go to the bank first so I won’t be there till about twenty past I expect.’

‘I’ll wait however long it takes,’ he said, looking right into her eyes.

‘What about the other job? And you haven’t told me your name.’ She giggled.

‘I’ll suggest I start tomorrow, or at least well after two,’ he said as he picked up his raincoat. ‘And I’m Ted Baxter. But I’d better go now, I’m holding up your work.’

Dan went straight to an ironmonger’s close by in Berwick Street and bought a length of washing line. In a secluded doorway he fastened it round his waist under his jacket. Then he went straight back into the coffee bar opposite Trueman’s office again, and got a seat by the window so he could watch who came in and went out.

By eleven-thirty Dan had drunk three cups of coffee, eaten a bacon sandwich and pretended to read an entire newspaper. He’d seen a brassy-looking woman of about forty-five in a very tight skirt and high heels go up the stairs, and then come back down only minutes later. He thought she might be a manageress of one of Trueman’s clubs. A bit later a teenage boy with a scar down his cheek went in and he wasn’t long either. Then about twelve o’clock two men slightly older than Dan arrived. One had crinkly red hair, the other light brown, and both had the look of professional hard men with their expensive suits and broad shoulders. The red-haired one clearly fancied himself; Dan had noticed him admiring his reflection in the shop window, and he had an exaggerated swagger.

Dan was holding his breath now, willing the two men to come out because if Trueman arrived and they were still in there, he’d have to back off. Even with a gun he couldn’t take on three of them alone.

At quarter to one the two men came down again. They stood outside the door for a little while and seemed to be arguing about something. It was ten to one when they eventually moved away.

Trueman sauntered down the Court at five past. Dan knew it was him even before he turned into the office doorway just by the way he walked. It was an arrogant, head-held-high, get-out-of-my-way walk, and he stood out in the midst of office workers because of his height and size and his immaculate cream trench coat. As Johnny had said, he did look fit, and despite the greying hair seemed less than sixty. The gold watch glinting on his wrist had probably cost more than a house.

The coffee bar was filling up now with people on their lunch-hours, giggling office girls, businessmen and quite a few rough-looking types that Dan would put down as the dirty mac brigade fortifying themselves before going to one of the afternoon stripclubs.

Dan picked up a newspaper someone had left behind and hid behind it, in case Janice glanced in as she left the office. She came hurrying out at quarter past one, her handbag bulging with mail to be posted. He noted she’d put on some makeup and backcombed her hair.

It was time. His heart was thumping and he felt a bit queasy for he knew once he was in the office there was no turning back. He didn’t know for certain that he’d got the right man, and Trueman could be armed too – he wouldn’t have got the reputation of being tough for nothing. But the week of anxiety about Fifi had built up so much rage inside him that he wasn’t going to think about what-ifs. He was going to get Fifi back come what may.

He closed the street door quietly as he went in, putting the lock on, and left his raincoat down there. Creeping up the stairs, he listened. The man was on the phone barking orders about a delivery of drinks. Dan could smell cigar smoke.

At the top of the stairs he paused, checked the rope was concealed under his jacket, patted the pocket where his gun was, took a deep breath and marched in. Trueman was in the inner office, tilted back in the big chair, his feet on the desk, and he’d taken off his suit jacket.

‘I fucking well told you to deliver this a week ago,’ he shouted down the phone, only glancing round at Dan briefly and indicating that he wouldn’t be long. ‘This will be the last order you ever get if you don’t get it round there right now. You got that?’

He slammed down the phone and looked up at Dan. ‘Bloody wankers,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery. What can I do for you, son?’

Dan walked towards the older man and stopped in the doorway of his office. ‘I want my wife back,’ he said in a measured tone, pulling out the gun. ‘And if you give me the runaround I’m going to kill you.’

The shock on the man’s face was almost laughable. His eyebrows shot up and he stared at the gun as if he thought he was seeing things. ‘Your wife?’ he repeated. ‘I haven’t got your bloody wife.’

For just a second Dan thought he might be wrong, but it was too late to consider that now. ‘Fifi Reynolds,’ he said. ‘And you’ve got Yvette Dupré. Don’t fuckin’ piss around or I’ll just shoot your leg for starters.’ He took another couple of steps into the office and pointed the gun at the man’s leg, still on the desk, wondering if he should shoot him anyway to speed things up.