Blood Brothers (10 page)

‘Of course,’ Hamilton said. ‘And what about the boy? What was his name? Jimmy? Is he still safe?’

‘As far as I know, but I’ll check up on that if I can,’ Barnard said heavily. ‘The Yard are handling the witnesses and no one’s going to fill me in if I go asking about them. But I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I’ll keep my eyes and ears open,’ Hamilton said. ‘There’s a grapevine amongst the youngsters who turn up here looking for a bed. I don’t know how they do it, but they know what’s going on.’

‘Thanks,’ Barnard said. ‘It may be nothing at all. He’s probably quite safe and my bosses won’t thank me for asking awkward questions. I’ll give you my home phone number if you need to get in touch.’ He wrote his number on a piece of paper Hamilton handed him. ‘Or you can leave a message at the nick.’

‘I thought things would get better once you’d pinned Georgie Robertson down,’ Hamilton said without his normal cheerful optimism. ‘But I’ve not seen much sign of it myself.’

‘I think there are people trying to fill the vacuum,’ Barnard said. ‘Don’t hesitate to call me if you hear anything, anything at all, about that case.’

‘I won’t,’ Hamilton said, looking even more anxious. ‘I’ll keep my ears open, believe me.’

Barnard left the vicarage and made his way back to the centre of Soho where he caught the landlord of the queer pub just opening his doors. He did not look pleased to see Barnard and merely grunted when he asked for a sandwich to go with his pint at the bar.’

‘We don’t really do food,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you could make an exception if you want a quiet life,’ Barnard said with a faint smile. ‘We’ve got a new DS on board who’s not nearly as tolerant as I am about poofters. You really don’t want to meet him.’

He took his glass across the empty bar to a corner table which gave a good view of the main doors and the landlord quite quickly delivered a ham sandwich and a small pot of mustard and waved away the pound note which Barnard offered.

‘On the house,’ he said, and Barnard grinned.

He had finished his beer and his sandwich by the time anyone he wanted to talk to came into the now busy pub. But Vincent Beaufort was never difficult to spot even in the most crowded environment. He marched through the swing doors resplendent in a black slouch hat, a purple suit and a green and pink flowery shirt and tie combo which made even fashion-conscious Barnard flinch. His sharp-eyed glance round the bar soon singled out Barnard in his corner and his expansive smile at the assembled throng faded as Barnard crooked a finger and he inched his way towards him and took the empty seat opposite.

‘Vinnie, you old poofter, long time no see,’ Barnard said cheerily while Beaufort’s face visibly blenched, showing up the two circles of rouge on his cheeks.

‘What do you want?’ he asked faintly. ‘I’ve just spent two months at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Wandsworth for chatting up a friend in a cottage. What the hell do you want now?’

‘Yes, I heard about that,’ Barnard said. ‘Soliciting, was it? Nothing to do with me, Vinnie. You go putting yourself about in public lavs and uniform will have you. You know that.’

‘So what now?’

‘Just a quiet word,’ Barnard said, lowering his voice. ‘If you keep your eyes and ears open for me it may help next time you cross the line.’

‘So what are you after,’ Beaufort asked sulkily. ‘I’ll believe you’re more give than bloody take when I see some evidence of it.’

‘Fair enough,’ Barnard said. ‘It’s only a theory I’m working on anyway. Nothing official. But if you hear any whispers about Georgie Robertson, and the witnesses at his upcoming trial, just tip me the wink, OK? You remember there was talk of him being your way inclined, don’t you?’

‘I never thought there was anything in that,’ Beaufort said contemptuously. ‘I have a nose for these things after all these years.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Barnard said. ‘Just let me know if you hear his name mentioned, or the name of anyone else involved in the case. D’you remember the old Scottish tramp who used to be around? You haven’t seen him recently have you?’

‘I haven’t,’ Beaufort said sharply. ‘He’s not my sort of person. Leaves a lot to be desired in the personal hygiene department.’

‘Let me know if you do see him,’ Barnard said. ‘It’s important. He’s supposed to be being kept safe but I think he might have come to some harm.’ He got up from the table and put a hand on Beaufort’s shoulder which from a distance might have looked friendly but which was firm enough to make him flinch. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he said.

Beaufort turned away and did not reply.

By lunchtime Kate was hungry and in urgent need of a lavatory, as she told Carter Price in no uncertain terms for at least the fifth time.

‘All right, all right,’ Price said eventually, starting up the grumbling engine of the A40 and doing a three point turn outside Reg Smith’s wrought iron gates. ‘We’ll have a lunch break.’ The morning had not been entirely unproductive. Soon after they arrived a small car had turned into the drive and a middle-aged woman had opened the gates, driven inside and closed them again behind her battered Ford.

‘Cleaning woman,’ Kate suggested.

‘Probably,’ Price had agreed. They had waited another hour before anything else happened. Then a green Jag had driven up fast, stopped outside the gates with a squeal of tyres and repeated the opening and closing ritual. Kate had taken another photograph and then glanced at her companion.

‘Do you recognize him?’ she asked.

‘Someone with a driver,’ Price said. ‘I couldn’t get a good look at the passenger. But if we’ve got the registration number I can track it down. There are ways.’ He tapped his nose suggestively. The vigil had got more interesting then as several more cars turned up in close succession and drove inside, most of them luxury cars, some with drivers and some without.

‘Get him,’ Price said sharply to Kate every time someone who was obviously not a chauffeur got out to open the gates, although he did not claim to recognize anyone by sight. And she took her shots through the windscreen as unobtrusively as she could.

‘Something’s going on there this morning,’ Price muttered as a fifth car entered Smith’s driveway. ‘They can’t just be having lunch. We may get better shots of the cars as they come out.’

But by noon most of the cars, including the cleaner’s, had driven out again one after another and Kate had done her best to focus on whoever was driving or occupying the passenger seat.

‘It’s not going to be very clear through the glass,’ she warned Price. ‘And focusing on a moving car. I’ll just shoot as many as I can and trust to luck on the quality.’

‘Do your best,’ he had said huffily. ‘Just do your best.’

And when all the cars had departed, most of them swinging up the hill towards Blackheath and past where they were discreetly parked, he had reluctantly agreed that they needed a break and driven swiftly down towards Lewisham where they found a pub which served food.

‘Do you think that’s it?’ she asked, tasting a sandwich which was curling at the edges. ‘He’s not likely to get more visitors this afternoon, is he?’

‘Well, we haven’t seen Smith himself yet,’ Price said. ‘If he chooses to go out it’ll be interesting to see just where he goes.’

Kate shrugged. She found this assignment tedious but as Ken Fellows had sanctioned it she had no choice in the matter. She drank half a pint of shandy while Price downed a couple of pints and she ate the sandwich because she was hungry. But in the event Price’s prediction was justified.

What happened next took Kate by complete surprise. Soon after they had driven back up the hill towards the heath and parked unobtrusively again, the gates opened to allow in a car which she recognized immediately.

‘That’s Harry Barnard from CID in Soho,’ she said, her mouth suddenly unaccountably dry.

‘Your boyfriend?’ Price said, immediately on full alert.

‘Not really,’ Kate said.

‘There’s someone with him,’ Price said. ‘See if you can recognize him as well.’

Kate peered at the red Capri but could not make out who was in the passenger seat clearly.

‘Take a couple of shots anyway,’ Price said, and she followed his instructions.

‘I don’t suppose it’s very odd that the cops should be paying Smith a visit but your man is well off his normal beat. I’ve got contacts of my own who may be able to tell me what’s going on. If Smith is about to be nicked that’s a big story. I’ll follow up when I get back to the office. Let’s wait a bit to see if Smith goes out. He won’t be best pleased by that little visit I shouldn’t think. He reckons he’s far too influential to be bothered by detective sergeants. Unless, of course, he’s got your mate in his pocket, like so many others down this way.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Kate said, though she feared her voice lacked conviction. But Price was right on one thing. Whatever was going on was getting more serious by the minute. They watched Harry Barnard’s Capri leave after twenty minutes or so and she took another couple of shots.

‘We’ll see how Smith reacts to that,’ Price said and settled back in his seat again, only to find his persistence quickly rewarded. After about five minutes, Smith himself drove to the gates, opened them and set off at speed towards Lewisham with Price close behind. It was difficult to keep the faster car in sight in the heavy traffic of the New Kent Road but as they approached central London Smith’s car slowed at a junction and he signalled a turn towards Bermondsey and Rotherhithe.

‘The Angel again?’ Kate suggested.

‘Could well be,’ Price agreed and they followed at a safe distance towards the Thames. Smith parked in much the same place as he had chosen the last time they had seen him here, but instead of going straight into the pub he made his way to another car which was parked nearby, and opened the driver’s door to allow someone out whose hand he shook enthusiastically.

‘Well, well, well,’ Price whispered. ‘Get those two, petal. As many shots as you can.’

‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘He’s called Mitch Graveney, and he’s the father of the chapel for one of the print unions at the
Globe.’

‘Father of the what?’ Kate asked, mystified.

‘Chairman of the union branch,’ Price said impatiently. ‘Now what the hell is he doing down here meeting with Reg Smith?’

They sat watching the pub for half an hour but neither of the two men emerged and when Price sent Kate in to buy a packet of crisps at the bar she saw them sitting at a secluded table with pints of beer and plates of sandwiches in front of them.

‘They look settled in for the duration,’ she told Price as she opened her crisps.

‘Well I don’t suppose we can hang around here all day,’ Price admitted. ‘I’ll make some inquiries about Mitch when I get back to the office.’ He turned to look at her closely and his eyes were cold. ‘There is one thing, sweetheart. I don’t want you going back to your friend the copper and telling him what we’ve been up to. What we’re doing is confidential and if you breathe a word out of turn I’ll make sure you never work as a photographer in London again. You do understand that, don’t you?’

Kate opened her mouth to protest but Price put a hand up.

‘Your man may be as innocent as the day’s long, dear,’ he said. ‘He might have been popping in to see Reg Smith with all the authority of the Metropolitan Police behind him. Or he might not. Until we know a bit more about what’s going on you keep your mouth shut. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ Kate said, her mouth dry and her heart thumping. She was, she thought, not just out of her depth, she was in great danger of drowning.

D
S Harry Barnard met up with Vic Copeland in the CID office half an hour before they were due to talk to Ray Robertson at the Delilah Club. Copeland had a tape recorder in a briefcase with a small microphone strategically placed just beneath the lock. It was, Barnard thought, a quite unnecessary stratagem to record a conversation which he knew would provide no admissions which could possibly be incriminating.

‘I’ve managed to get us a meet with the Maltese later just in case our corpse is one of theirs,’ Copeland said. ‘But my money’s on Robertson.’

‘Well if you believe Reg Smith, you may be right,’ Barnard said non-committally, not wanting to get into an argument. The morning’s trip to see Smith, on Barnard’s own insistence, had been frustrating and inconclusive. Smith had denied all knowledge of the tortured corpse found on the building site and been anxious to assure them that no one he was connected with had gone missing.

‘You say he had lost his fingers and toes,’ Smith had said, wide-eyed. ‘What makes you imagine I treat people like that anyway? I look after my boys. Anyway, no one I work with is missing. You’re on the wrong track completely, lads. You’re on a wild goose chase. My activities these days are completely legit, whatever anyone else says. Believe me.’ Barnard had not believed a word of it, but he was not prepared to go into details of his knowledge of Ray Robertson’s affairs. The contacts between Robertson and Smith would inevitably reach official ears some time soon, perhaps even during the interview Copeland had arranged for this afternoon, but he saw no particular reason to highlight a liaison which he hoped Ray Robertson had decided to avoid. He shrugged himself into his trench coat and adjusted his tie in the glass panel of the door.

‘Let’s get on then, shall we?’

They walked the short distance from the nick to the Delilah Club where they found the doors open and Barnard led the way to the office at the back of the building. The door there was open too and they could see Ray Robertson lounging at his desk, smoking a cigar with a smile on his face which reminded Barnard of a hungry tiger eyeing up a sitting target.

‘Good morning gents,’ Robertson said. ‘Come on in, come on in. Make yourselves at home. What exactly can I do for you?’

Barnard glanced at Copeland. ‘My mate Vic has a few questions, Ray,’ he said. ‘We’re pursuing inquiries about the murder victim who was found on the building site at Tottenham Court Road. We don’t have an identity yet and we wondered if you had any idea who he might be.’

Robertson fixed a glare on Copeland and stubbed out his cigar viciously without adjusting his smile. He sat up in his swivel chair, elbows on the desk, every inch the predator in spite of his bulk. ‘What makes you think that I might have anything to do with that poor beggar?’ he asked, his voice silky. ‘I heard what happened to him. That was pretty quickly on the grapevine. Nasty business, I heard. Very nasty.’