Blood Brothers (5 page)

‘I read somewhere that some woman in America has written a book complaining that housewives are all going slowly barmy, shut up at home with the kids and the new washing machine,’ Kate said.

‘I suppose it’s the washing machine that’s doing it,’ Tess said, laughing. ‘Our mothers didn’t have them, did they? Just a dolly tub and a mangle and the housework took all day. Anyway, I’m not rushing into anything just yet. I like my job, too, you know.’

They both jumped slightly as the phone rang, a new acquisition which, after a long wait for a connection, had pushed long treks downstairs to the payphone in the hall into history.

Kate got up and picked up and was, as always, slightly surprised to hear Harry Barnard’s voice. ‘Hello stranger,’ she said tentatively.

‘Sorry,’ Barnard said. ‘I’ve been a bit busy. Have you eaten?’

‘Just finished,’ Kate said, feeling the slight surge of excitement that Harry always engendered and feeling equally irritated that he could still have that effect, and that he probably knew it.

‘A drink then? I’m still in town. I can drive down to Shepherd’s Bush in ten minutes. I’ll pick you up at the flat?’

‘Yes, fine,’ Kate said, picking up an urgency in his voice which she did not quite understand. ‘I’ll powder my nose.’

Tess raised an eyebrow quizzically as her friend got up and picked up her handbag. ‘The master calls?’

‘It’s not like that,’ Kate said irritably, but she wondered if it was.

Barnard was as good as his word. He sounded the horn impatiently as he drove up to pick her up outside the flat, revving his engine loudly as she came down the steps of the tall Victorian house. He whisked her down to Hammersmith at speed to a riverside pub which was bright and welcoming enough to relax Kate slightly. He bought a gin and tonic for her and a Scotch for himself and leaned over to kiss her cheek after he had put the drinks on the table.

‘Sorry it’s been a while sweetie. I’ve been a bit busy,’ he said.

‘I’m glad you called,’ Kate said, her expression sober. ‘I was going to call you.’ She hesitated for a moment and sipped her drink slowly, considering just how much to tell him. ‘Something a bit odd happened earlier that I wanted to tell you about, though I’m not quite sure where to start.’

Barnard raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘The beginning maybe,’ he said.

‘I met this reporter from the
Globe
, Carter Price, and he started asking me some very odd questions when he took me for a drink earlier. He’s a friend of Ken’s and he offered to show me round the
Globe
and introduce me to the picture editor, a man called Bill Kenyon.’

‘But there was more to it than that?’ Barnard asked, with unexpected certainty. ‘I know Carter Price. He’s a bastard, always got his nose poking into something he shouldn’t have and certainly not the man to do anything just out of the goodness of his heart. There’s a payback in there somewhere, isn’t there?’

‘It seems like it,’ Kate said and told Barnard, hesitantly, how Price had quizzed her about what she knew of Ray and Georgie Robertson and had described Harry himself as a ‘dodgy’ Soho cop.

Barnard’s face darkened as he listened. ‘He even said he’s heard about a plan at Scotland Yard to sort out the vice squad. How on earth does he find out things like that? Did you know about that?’

‘Well, not in so many words, no, I didn’t, but there is some sort of a purge being planned,’ Barnard said. ‘There’s a new assistant commissioner making his presence felt. You have to understand, a lot of these nosy hacks more or less live in the Scotland Yard press room. It’s a toss up who’s helping who. They pick up all sorts of stuff they shouldn’t, some of it official, some of it not. And if they’re masons, they meet more senior people at some lodge or other, either the one they belong to or one they visit for meals. There’s plenty of cops in the masons and they’re all willing to scratch each other’s backs even if the back they scratch belongs to a reporter. Favours are taken and given. I’ve never gone in for that nonsense myself but maybe that’s a mistake. They look after their own, these people. It’s certainly the way to get promotion in some nicks.’

‘What do they do, masons?’ Kate asked. ‘My lot were all Catholics and they’re not allowed to join, but you hear some funny stories about men in pinnies and strange rituals.’

‘It’s a secret society,’ Barnard said. ‘And a powerful one, especially in the police force. And there’s much more to it than pinnies and rituals. Did your reporter let on who’s planning to sort out the vice squad?’

‘No, he was picking my brains but I didn’t get much of a chance to pick his. He wasn’t giving much away, apart from how I’d never make it in Fleet Street as a photographer. He was all smiles and sympathy when he was showing me round the offices but his attitude changed when we went for a drink. That was when I realized he wasn’t just doing Ken a favour taking me on a sightseeing tour. There was much more to it than that.’

‘I bet there was,’ Barnard said. ‘I told you. He’s a ruthless beggar.’

‘He did seem to know a lot about the cases you and I have been involved in. He did say he thought you might have helped Ted Venables get away. That he might not be dead …’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Barnard said. ‘If they believe that at the Yard they’ll want my head on a platter. They found Venables’ boat – you know that – but they never found a body. I guess that still rankles at the Yard. They’ve always been convinced that they should have been in on that case, that they could have wrapped it up better than we did. They don’t forgive or forget.’

‘Surely if he got away, someone would have heard. People don’t just disappear off the face of the earth.’

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Barnard said gloomily. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Some of the bad guys seem to be getting quite good at spiriting themselves away. Anyway, while he’s missing anyone can spin any sort of rumour about him can’t they? I’m a sitting duck if someone’s looking to take pot shots in my direction.’

‘Why would they want to do that?’ Kate asked. ‘Is it because Ray Robertson’s a friend of yours.’

‘It’s partly that, I suppose. But they should have learned by now that unless you keep close to some of the bad guys you never find out what’s going on. And we do find out what’s going on and generally we keep Soho under control. We don’t have gun battles in the streets like they do in New York and Chicago.’

‘But maybe they think you get too close,’ Kate said tentatively.

‘Which is why right now it’s not the gangsters I’m worried about,’ Barnard said. ‘It’s the cops. This new assistant commissioner at the Yard is supposed to be cleaning the whole of CID up, but I expect the vice squad is top of his list for that. My DCI’s seeing him tomorrow. And there’s a new murder case which I think just might involve a witness who’s supposed to be holed up waiting for Georgie Robertson’s trial. We don’t have a definite ID and the DCI said we would have heard if he’d gone missing, but I’m not so sure about that. You remember the old tramp who was a witness against Georgie and the rest, don’t you? Hamish Macdonald, he was called. It was just a passing thought when I saw the body on the building site. I’ve no real evidence it was him. I’ll just have to wait and see. But if it is, there’ll be all hell let loose around the whole Robertson clan. Who got to a witness and how? One way and another I’ll be in the firing line too. One way or another I reckon I might be up the creek.’

Kate put her hand over his. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

Assistant Commissioner John Amis arrived at the nick in full fig the next morning and swept into DCI Keith Jackson’s office without ceremony. The Scotsman got to his feet quickly and stiffened to attention.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Can I get you anything – tea, coffee, something stronger?’ Jackson’s face was flushed although if he had been drinking there was no sign of it on his breath.

Amis sniffed suspiciously and waved away his offer with undisguised contempt. ‘Your department is a disgrace, Jackson,’ he said. ‘And it’s about time something drastic was done about it.’

‘Sir,’ Jackson said, wooden-faced and glassy-eyed, sinking back behind his desk, appearing to visibly shrink as the AC sat down opposite him. ‘Since I’ve been here efforts have been made,’ Jackson said defensively. ‘You know we’ve tightened up on contacts with informants, payments for information, prosecutions for gross indecency, after-hours drinking, soliciting …’

‘Not enough, not soon enough, not great enough efforts, in fact, as far as I can see, completely ineffective,’ Amis came back hard. ‘You’ve still got detectives roaming the streets day and night running their own protection rackets, consorting with known criminals as they please. It’s getting the whole Metropolitan Police Force a bad name.’ Amis swivelled angrily in his chair and banged a file on to the desk in front of him while Jackson subsided back into his seat with what sounded more like a sob than a sigh.

‘It’s going to take time, sir,’ he said. ‘Soho is like a hundred year old cesspit that needs draining, but we have made a modest start. I’m concentrating on the homosexual pubs and clubs this month. I want them closed down …’

‘That’s a minor issue,’ Amis snarled. ‘The rest of it’s entrenched, isn’t it, run by men making a fortune out of vice and racketeering? You’ve had time enough to make an impact since the scandal a year ago and nothing’s happened. So as from now things are going to change. We have a target. It’s perfectly obvious that Barnard is still thick with the Robertson clan and Ray Robertson seems to be pushing the boat out with Reg Smith, who runs just about everything south of the river. We’ve got no intelligence on what they’re planning, although I’m sure Sergeant Barnard could give us chapter and verse if he chose. But he doesn’t choose. So I’m going to give you some extra help, with the specific brief of pinning Barnard to the floor. I want him out. If possible I want him in the dock with Ray Robertson. It’s where he should have been years ago. He’s a disgrace.’

‘But with Georgie about to go down …’ Jackson ventured. ‘That’s the worst of them out of the way. I’d begun to think we were making progress even in that area.’

For a second Amis seemed to hesitate but then changed his mind. ‘Not with Smith involved,’ he said. ‘If he’s thinking of linking up with Ray Robertson they’ll have an army at their beck and call. Things can only get much worse. You’ll concentrate on Robertson and I’ll get our boys south of the river to put pressure on Smith.’

‘So this extra help?’ Jackson asked, his voice slightly strangled. ‘Who have you got in mind?’

‘DS Vic Copeland,’ Amis said. ‘He’s perfect for the task. He’s had army training. He’s on the square, so he can be trusted. He blotted his copybook, according to the City of London, but he’s very happy to transfer to the Met and start with a clean slate. He can start straight away. But I don’t want you getting him bogged down in trivial stuff. His brief is to watch Barnard, find out what’s going on with him and Robertson, and report back. I want a weekly report, at least.’

‘Copeland?’ Jackson looked even paler. ‘His reputation … He was lucky not to be charged with manslaughter after that case in Smithfield.’

‘He cuts corners, I wouldn’t deny that. But he cuts them in the right direction, not like the bloody vice squad. Copeland was trained in a hard school. But isn’t that what you need? Nothing else has worked in Soho. It’s time to come down hard. He’s the man for the job. He’ll report to you, of course, but he’ll report to me too. I want results this time. No more pussyfooting around. I want Barnard out and if possible alongside Ray Robertson, in the dock where he belongs, with his blasted brother.’

‘Sir,’ Jackson said faintly.

‘This discussion goes no further than these four walls of course,’ Amis said getting to his feet. ‘If you want a private word you can invite me to your lodge, away from prying eyes. We can even invite Copeland as a guest if we need a chat away from the job. Anything else of interest I should know about?’

‘A very odd murder,’ Jackson said, his voice slightly strangled. ‘Someone tried to dump a body on that huge building site at Tottenham Court Road, the one there was all the fuss in the newspapers about. They obviously hoped he was going to disappear under tons of concrete but a digger turned him up before it was poured. Could be a victim of one of the gangs but we’ve no ID yet. I’ll keep you informed.’

Amis got to his feet and tucked his uniform cap under his arm. ‘I’ll have a look round while I’m here,’ he said. ‘Good for the troops to see the top brass occasionally. Keeps them on their toes.’ He gave Jackson the thin smile of a hungry tiger. ‘I’ll let you know when Copeland will be arriving in CID. Arrange a briefing tomorrow, will you, and I’ll give them a taste of what it’s going to be like here in future. Nine in the morning will be fine.’

DCI Jackson stood by the window of his office looking down into the car park. He waited until he saw the assistant commissioner get into his car and be driven out into the busy West End traffic, and then waited again until his summons for DS Harry Barnard was answered. He failed to wave the sergeant into a seat and stood for a minute by the window looking at him stony-faced.

‘Did you see the assistant commissioner?’ he asked eventually.

‘He did a walk round CID,’ Barnard said. ‘He didn’t speak to me.’

‘He’s sending us reinforcements in the shape of DS Vic Copeland. Do you know him?’

Barnard could not disguise his surprise and he knew it was tinged with horror, which he hoped Jackson could not see. ‘I’ve never met him,’ he said. ‘As I hear it he’s lucky to still be in the Force. He’s well known as a bit of a thug.’

‘AC Amis wants Soho cleaned up and he seems to think Copeland is the man to help us do it. The City force is very happy to transfer him over. Want to be rid of him, no doubt, and his little embarrassment in Smithfield. So we’re stuck with him. I want you to show him around when he arrives. He can’t have ever worked in the West End before, and certainly not in Soho.’

‘He’ll go down a storm with the tarts and the queers,’ Barnard muttered. ‘They’ll all know about the deaths in custody, and there’s much more, so I’m told. He’s the sort of man who talks more with his fists than his mouth. A good thumping first and then the questions. And another good thumping if the answers aren’t the right ones. The courts are beginning to catch on and turf his cases out.’