Blood Brothers (14 page)

Barnard thought he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. ‘The trouble is, guv, that if you destabilize the present situation you could end up with something significantly worse,’ he said. ‘Robertson and the Maltese have reached an accord which has kept violence off the streets in Soho for a year or more. If you take either one of them out you can be sure that someone else – Reg Smith perhaps – will try to break in and there’ll be a gang war. And that could be much, much worse. That’s the way innocent punters don’t just get ripped off, they get hurt.’

‘That’s the pessimistic view, sergeant, and it’s one which the AC and I believe is totally defeatist. What you’re saying is that we go along with the status quo for a quiet life for fear of something worse. That is not the policy of the Metropolitan Police and the sooner officers like you get to grips with that the better for all of us, especially the law-abiding citizens of the West End of London. Pandering to these gangsters leads to corruption all round and Mr Amis will not stand for it.’

‘No chance of sitting in on the interview with Ray Robertson, I suppose, guv?’ Barnard asked.

‘No chance,’ DCI Jackson said. ‘Carry on, sergeant.’

The phrase threw Barnard back to his days of national service and he shuddered slightly at the memory. ‘Sir,’ he said, almost saluting and spinning on his heel to leave the room with distinctly military precision. He wondered what exact part Keith Jackson had played in the forces. The imprint was certainly indelible.

Back in the CID office he put his coat on and walked out into Regent Street and found a phone box. Fred Bettany’s secretary answered promptly and put him through quickly.

‘Fred,’ Barnard said without identifying himself. He was sure the accountant would know his voice. ‘Ray’s in trouble. Vic Copeland’s planning to haul him into the nick for a going over. Can you make sure his brief is there? And could you pass on a message from me? Tell him I’ll call in at the gym about six. I need to talk to him. OK? That’s assuming they don’t arrest him.’

There was a silence at the other end.

‘Tell me about it,’ Bettany said eventually.

‘Not now, mate,’ Barnard said and hung up.

For the rest of the morning he followed his usual routine, keeping his finger on the pulse of Soho, meeting useful contacts, chatting up the street girls as they emerged towards lunchtime from their flats, bleary-eyed and un-made-up, saving what charms they still possessed for the arrival of clients much later in the day. But he kept his fingers out of anyone’s till and ended up at lunchtime with a visit to the queer pub which had already attracted a substantial clientele. One or two looked up warily as Barnard walked in but relaxed when they recognized him.

The knot of anxiety which had tightened his stomach since he had absorbed the implications of Vic Copeland’s plans was still there, but he knew if he tried to intervene in any way at the nick his career would be immediately on the line. If it wasn’t already, he thought as he approached the bar and ordered a half pint, leaning back against the mahogany, glass in hand, assessing with sharp eyes who was there while trying to look his normal relaxed self. He turned back to the barman eventually.

‘Has Vincent Beaufort been in yet?’ he asked. ‘I need a word.’

‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of days, Harry,’ the barman said. ‘Do you want me to give him a message?’

A sharp shiver of alarm ran up Barnard’s spine. Beaufort lived to flaunt himself and for him to be absent from Soho’s streets and bars was distinctly unusual. ‘Do you know where he’s living now?’ he asked.

The barman shrugged. ‘I heard he had a new boyfriend but I’ve no idea where they hang out.’

‘If you see either of them can you ask them to get in touch?’ Barnard said, telling himself that his sense that something was not right was in no way justified by the facts. But he did not convince himself. He finished his drink and walked slowly back to the nick to be met in the front office by the alarming sight of Ray Robertson himself, being helped towards the door by a tall man in a dark suit he half recognized as one of the lawyers who found it lucrative to work for Robertson’s varied enterprises. Robertson’s face was bruised and there was a cut above his right eye as if, in a reprise of his early career, he had just left the boxing ring defeated.

Robertson caught sight of Barnard in the doorway and directed a snarl in his direction. ‘What the hell’s going on, Flash?’ he hissed. ‘That’s what I’d like to know. What the bloody hell is going on?’

Barnard nodded in the direction of the two men but said nothing as he passed them and paused at the main desk where a chubby sergeant was watching the scene with avid interest. ‘What the hell happened to him?’ Barnard asked quietly as the two men vanished down the steps outside.

The sergeant shrugged. ‘The official story from Vic Copeland is that Robertson lost his rag and threw a punch when they invited him down to the nick, so Vic threw a few back. He’s been in an interview room with Copeland and the DCI most of the morning and been bailed with a charge of resisting arrest.’

‘And the unofficial story?’ Barnard asked.

‘Well you know Copeland’s rep,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’m damn sure he wasn’t as battered when he came in as he is now going out, so I leave it to your imagination. His solicitor didn’t arrive till about half an hour ago so they had him on their own for a fair length of time. The solicitor’s playing merry hell.’

Barnard nodded. Nothing the sergeant told him surprised him but he knew that he was on a hiding to nothing if he tried to interfere. He made his way into the interior of the building and headed for the custody sergeant’s office. The officer on duty did not seem too pleased to see him, perhaps suspecting that he wanted to talk about Ray Robertson’s treatment, but Barnard had something else entirely in mind.

‘Has a queer called Vince Beaufort been brought in over the last couple of days?’ he asked. ‘Small bloke, flamboyant dresser, could have been done for cottaging, soliciting, any of that.’

The sergeant visibly relaxed. ‘Don’t think so,’ he said, flicking through pages of records quickly. ‘Has he got a record?’

‘I think he’s done time once or twice, for the usual,’ Barnard said. ‘I wanted a little chat but the word is he hasn’t been seen on his usual haunts for a few days. It seemed a bit odd. He’s not exactly the retiring type.’

‘Some of them flaunt it,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’d have their balls off if it were me.’

‘Sounds a bit drastic,’ Barnard said lightly, though there was no humour in his eyes. He spun on his heel, made his way out of the nick and into the nearest pub, where he ordered a double scotch.

The Red Lion was a small dark pub down one of the narrow alleys off Fleet Street which led downhill to the river Thames.

Carter Price led the way from the
Globe
building where he and Kate had met that morning and pushed open the door for her. ‘This is the
Globe
’s pub,’ he said. ‘You find out all the gossip in here.’

The lounge was already busy and Price had to wait to get served at the bar and they only found an empty table after a hunt in the darker regions at the back of the room.

‘The printers tend to come in early,’ he said. ‘Then at lunchtime this might as well be the newsroom, except for those who prefer El Vino down the road. A bit more exclusive down there. The theatre critics from the posh papers hold court but you’ll not get served if you’re a woman. You have to sit still and wait for the men to bring you something.’

‘You’re joking, la,’ Kate said.

‘I’m certainly not,’ Price insisted. ‘I’ll take you there one day, but today I’m keen to talk to Mitch Graveney’s mates, see if we can find out how the hell he knows Reg Smith so well.’

Kate raised an eyebrow and sipped her tomato juice. It felt too early in the day to join Price on the hard stuff. They sat in silence for a while watching a succession of blue-overalled printers come in and out for a quick drink.

‘First edition of the evening paper’s just gone,’ Price said glancing at his watch. It was nine thirty. ‘Some of them get a break after that.’

Most of the printers glanced in Price’s direction, flashed appraising glance at Kate, raised an eyebrow and then ignored the pair of them. But eventually one of the men coming in waved a hand in their direction. ‘Can I get you another, Carter?’ he asked. ‘And your lady friend?’

‘Double scotch, and a tomato juice,’ Price said quickly.

After a few minutes, the man came back with their drinks and a pint for himself and pulled up a stool to their table.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ he asked, giving Kate a flashing smile.

‘Pete Archer, Kate O’Donnell. Kate’s helping me with a story I’m working on,’ Price said airily.

‘Very nice too,’ Archer said before taking a long drink from his foaming glass. ‘I wish I could summon up a dishy assistant out of thin air like you do.’

‘She’s not an assistant, she’s a photographer.’

Archer gave a low whistle and looked surprised. ‘Not looking for a staff job, is she?’ he asked. ‘Bill Kenyon must be going soft in his old age.’

‘I’ve met Bill Kenyon,’ Kate said sharply. ‘He’s living in the dark ages as far as women are concerned.’

Archer and Price laughed loudly.

‘Well I’ll bet Carter here a fiver that we don’t see a female photographer here in the next ten years.’

‘You’re on,’ Price said complacently. ‘I’ve told her to be satisfied with the job she’s got. And it’ll be twenty years before you printers let a woman near a machine. Mitch Graveney would do his nut at the very thought.’

‘It’s very like typing,’ Kate said, thinking of the Linotype operators she had seen at their keyboards. ‘What’s the difference?’

‘You’ll get us drummed out of here if anyone hears you committing heresy like that,’ Price said and it was clear he was only half joking. ‘Which reminds me, I saw Mitch in a pub south of the river the other day. You live in Lewisham, don’t you? I don’t think he noticed me but I was a bit surprised at the company he was keeping. Do you know a bloke called Reg Smith? Some sort of big shot in that area, not necessarily legit, you know what I mean?’

Archer looked uneasy for a moment but then his face cleared. ‘Ah yes, I know what it would be,’ he said. ‘I’m not on the square myself. Brought up a Catholic, I was, and they don’t like that sort of thing. But I know Mitch is a mason and someone told me Smith was something big in one of the local lodges. Worshipful something or other, don’t they call it. They’re probably in the same lodge. Mitch Graveney lives in Lee Green which isn’t far away. You can bet your life they’ll be wearing pinnies together and scratching each other’s backs the rest of the time. You know how it is?’

‘That explains it,’ Price said easily. ‘So who’s going to win the Chelsea game on Saturday? It’s going to be a tight one, isn’t it?’

Archer shrugged. ‘Don’t have much time for football myself,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an allotment. That keeps me out of the wife’s way at weekends. Anyway, I’ve got to get back. We’re short-handed today. Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck didn’t turn up.’ He finished his drink in one, grinned and left them, leaving Kate looking bemused.

‘Was he serious?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Price said. ‘You don’t get a printer’s job in Fleet Street unless your dad and your grandad had one before you. The unions see to that. And it’s not unknown for them to add a few fictional characters to the payroll. It’s one of those custom and practice issues. If the management query it the presses stop rolling and a day or night’s paper goes down the tubes. No paper, no income, QED.’

‘Isn’t that illegal?’

‘It’s industrial relations, dear,’ Price said. ‘Not pretty but it’s been going on for years. And I can’t see anyone sorting it any time soon. Come on, let’s go back to Smith’s place and see what we can see. Later I’ll see if I can find out which lodge those bastards are frequenting. And if you’re very good I’ll treat you to dinner later.’

‘I’ve got a date tonight,’ Kate said, not for the first time, thinking of Harry Barnard and finding that option preferable to Carter Price’s hospitality, which she was quite sure came with strings.

The evening did not turn out quite as Kate expected. She had returned to the agency soon after lunch when Carter Price had got tired of sitting outside Reg Smith’s house, which this morning appeared deserted.

‘You might as well go back to the office and print up everything we’ve got so far,’ Price had said grumpily. ‘I need to have a quiet chat with some of my Masonic contacts and see if I can find out exactly what connections there are between Smith and Graveney. It may be just coincidence. I can’t see what Mitch is going to get out of palling up with a gangster like Smith but maybe he’s got something Smith wants, information most likely. Maybe he’s got wind that I’ve got him in my sights.’

‘That could be very dodgy, couldn’t it?’ Kate had asked.

‘Oh, I’ve been on a few dodgy characters’ hit lists over the years,’ Price had said airily. ‘They make threats and huff and puff but so far I’ve survived and they’ve ended up in jail. That’s what the
Globe
pays me for, after all. It’s my job.’

But not mine, Kate thought uneasily, wondering how long this surveillance could safely continue.

Later in the afternoon Harry Barnard called her and they arranged to meet for an early meal at an Italian restaurant they both liked in Charlotte Street; early because he was hoping to see Ray Robertson later, but before she left the office he had rung her again with an urgency in his voice which frightened her.

‘I’ve just had a call from David Hamilton at St Peter’s refuge for homeless youngsters. Can you meet me there as soon as you can?’

Kate did not argue. She tidied her desk, put on her coat and hurried through the crowded after-work streets of Soho to the looming Victorian church which held so many unwelcome memories for her. She found Barnard standing in the porch with the vicar, both men looking grim.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked, feeling slightly sick with apprehension.

‘Nothing – yet,’ Barnard said. ‘One of the lads here told Mr Hamilton that he had seen Jimmy Earnshaw hiding in the churchyard, freezing cold and starving hungry. He had taken him something to eat after he was given his own tea but when they both went back to look for him soon afterwards Jimmy had gone.’