Dressed To Kill (A Kate O'Donnell Mystery) (25 page)

‘He never told me anything like that,’ Swift said miserably. ‘I’m not stupid. I know there are gangsters in Soho who control these things. But Ricky never seemed to be worried about anything like that. He never seemed worried at all, come to that. He was what you might call a cheeky chappie, a spiv. He never said he’d been in the forces but I can imagine he’d have found himself a comfy little berth if he was.’

‘Did he kill Jenny Maitland, Mr Swift?’ Barnard snapped.

‘No, of course not,’ Swift said. ‘He always seemed quite fond of the girls. He was shocked when her body was found.’

‘Did you kill her?’

‘No, no, of course not.’ The musician looked genuinely horrified at the idea.

‘And you didn’t kill Ricky Smart, either?’

Swift moaned faintly. ‘No, no, no.’ he said. ‘Why on earth would I have done that? I was making money out of him. Playing clarinet every night isn’t a big earner.’

Barnard glanced at Ross Staples and then at his watch and got to his feet. He wasn’t going to let any of these bastards interfere with his night out, he thought. ‘We’ll talk again in the morning, Mr Swift,’ he said. ‘Give you time to reflect whether you’ve told me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, won’t it. And then we’ll think about charges.’

Leaving Swift pale and shaking he went back to CID and, back at his desk, he noticed a scribbled note asking him to call the Suffolk police in Southwold.

‘What now?’ he said to himself as he dialled and, on a bad line, made contact with a sergeant at the other end.

‘Oh yes,’ the voice said in a strong country accent. ‘You’ll be the one wanting someone picked up at Clarence Cottages. A Mr Lubin?’

‘Have you got him?’ Barnard asked impatiently.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ the sergeant said. ‘We went down there soon as you rang but the cottage was empty. Someone further along said a man had been there but he’d seen him put suitcases into a car very early, seven o’clock yesterday morning, and drive off. Reckons it was the son of the old girl who used to live there. She died a couple of years back and it’s been empty since. Shame that, when there’s youngsters looking for places to live. Married a Russian, so I believe, but came back here a widow.’

‘Yes, yes, so have you been back for another look?’ Barnard snapped.

‘I’ve asked the beat bobby to keep an eye open but no one’s been back as far as we know. And the neighbours will notice. Everyone knows everyone in a little place like this. Nothing interesting has happened here since the war. I waited to see if he turned up before I phoned you back. But there’s been no sign.’

‘Blast,’ Barnard said. ‘Keep an eye on the place for me, will you, mate, though I doubt he’ll be back.’ Lubin must have decided to leave the cottage the previous day, making an early start and stopping off in Diss to talk to Kate O’Donnell, he thought. If she had told him in advance what she was planning, they could have picked Lubin up then and there. The DCI would not be best pleased when he learned how she had kept that crucial rendezvous to herself.

K
ate O’Donnell pulled on her new boots, her very short skirt and a black polo-necked sweater.

‘What do you think?’ she asked Tess who was watching her critically. ‘It’s very short.’

‘You can get away with it. You’ve got good legs, you might as well make the most of them.’

‘Mmm,’ Kate said, gazing at herself critically in the bedroom mirror. ‘The tights are definitely better than stockings. If I was wearing a suspender belt I’d be wondering what people could see.’

‘That’s why the lads like suspender belts,’ Tess said, with a grin. ‘If you spent all your time with steamy adolescents like I do, you’d know exactly why the girls are turning to tights and the lads are looking glum. And why the head wants skirts strictly on the knee.’

Kate pulled the curtains back and glanced out of the bedroom to the street below. ‘He’s here,’ she said, as the Ford Capri pulled into the curb outside the front door and she picked up her coat. ‘I must say it’s nice to be picked up, and he says he’ll drop me off again so you don’t need to worry if I’m a bit late.’

‘Have a good evening,’ Tess said. ‘And if you can’t be good be careful.’

Kate was still smiling when she opened the front door to Harry Barnard, slinging her coat round her shoulders.

‘You look good,’ he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Do you like Greek food? I’ve booked us a table at a little taverna in Charlotte Street.’

‘I’ve never had Greek food, la,’ Kate said lightly. ‘Is it like Italian?’

‘Not really,’ he said, as he opened the passenger door for her. ‘But you can get lots of small dishes to start with, so if you don’t like one you can try another.’

‘Sounds OK,’ she said as he got into the car and pulled away from the kerb with a roar.

‘Do you mean to tell me you don’t even know what a kebab is?’ he asked, laughing.

‘You forget I’m from oop north,’ she said. ‘It’s still meat and two veg up there, none of this fancy foreign muck you’re introducing me to. So what’s a kebab when it’s at home?’

‘Meat – lamb usually – cut into chunks and grilled on a skewer, with chunks of vegetables. Very nice.’

‘Mmm,’ she said non-committally.

Barnard concentrated on the traffic on Holland Park Avenue as he headed back to the West End. But waiting for the traffic lights to change at Notting Hill Gate he turned to her with rather less enthusiasm. ‘Andrei Lubin’s scarpered again,’ he said. ‘He didn’t go back to the cottage in Southwold after he met you. DCI Jackson’s not going to be happy that you didn’t tell us what you were planning before you went waltzing off to see him.’

Kate shrugged slightly. ‘He said he would come back. He even said he’d talk to you. You lot may imagine he cut Ricky’s throat but when you do see him you’ll realize he’s genuinely scared of getting his own throat cut. Andrei’s not a killer, Harry, believe me. He’s a pussy cat.’

‘Maybe,’ Barnard said. ‘But we still want to talk to him.’

‘Well, I’m sorry you didn’t get him today, but he’s bound to contact me again if he wants the stuff he asked me to get out of the studio for him, isn’t he?’

‘And this time you’ll tell us when he phones, won’t you, and where you’re going to meet him? No ifs, ands or buts, no messing about.’

‘Of course,’ she said sweetly, though she knew how serious a threat DCI Jackson would pose this time if she didn’t cooperate. She sighed. ‘Tatiana might have some idea where he’s gone this time,’ she suggested. ‘She might even have taken him in, I suppose. She’s supposed to have this big place in the country with her husband, though Andrei’s fallen out with Roddy, apparently. I met him at her studio briefly. I can’t say I liked him very much. As soon as I opened my mouth he looked at me as if I was something the cat brought in. But they gave me a guided tour of their place in the country and they’re giving me some work taking pictures at their next party instead of Andrei so I really can’t complain. It’s a great barn of a place that looks as if its about to fall down. I don’t think throwing a few charity parties out there is going to save it. Ray Robertson’s do’s at the Delilah must be more attractive, though I suppose he’s doing it for the status rather than to make money.’

Barnard glanced at her as he waited at the lights on Oxford Street, which was still crowded long after the big stores had closed. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he said.

‘Do what?’

‘Prise all this information out of people. I swear you’d get a confession out of Sweeney Todd if you bumped into him in Fleet Street.’

‘I didn’t get much out of Roddy Broughton-Clarke, and it’s a long shot to think Tatiana might have taken her cousin home with her, but she might have heard from him. I’m going out there on Thursday strictly as a photographer, strictly professional.’

‘Worth a chat the morning after if you pick up any more useful nuggets of information,’ Barnard said swinging round Soho Square until he found an empty parking place up against the central gardens and thinking that there was another reason for contacting one of the Broughton-Clarkes. An invitation for Ray Robertson to one of these parties at their stately pile in the country, perhaps even the one upcoming, might be just the thing to distract him from his crazier schemes. He might talk to Tatiana Broughton-Clarke about that.

‘But for now let’s relax and enjoy ourselves,’ he said to Kate. ‘Have you ever drunk ouzo?’

Kate shook her head. ‘You’re in for a treat then,’ he said, helping her out of the car with a grin. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

The phone beside the bed rang and roused Harry Barnard out of a deep and satisfied sleep. He moved carefully away from his unexpected guest and picked up the receiver.

‘Barnard,’ he said quietly, expecting it to be some sort of summons from the nick at three in the morning only to hear a voice at the other end of the line which he only half recognized.

‘Fred?’ he asked. ‘What the hell’s going on. It’s the middle of the night.’

‘I need your help,’ Fred Bettany said. ‘You know what we were talking about at the Spaniards the other day. We’ve hit a crisis. Ray and Frankie Falzon are head-to-head at the Delilah. If someone doesn’t talk them down you’re going to have a gang war on your hands in Soho, even right across London if Ray sticks to his plan to branch out with Reg Smith. And if Smith gets involved you know there’ll be all hell let loose. There’ll be war. You know that.’

Barnard swung his feet out of bed and glanced at Kate O’Donnell, who was now awake and watching him with questioning eyes. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ he said to Fred and hung up.

‘I’m sorry, sweetie,’ he said to Kate. ‘I’ll have to leave you for a bit. Someone I know has hit a crisis. With a bit of luck I’ll be back for breakfast.’

He left her looking bemused and he wondered whether it was because she had been rudely wakened in the middle of the night or because she could not remember clearly how she had come to be in his bed in the first place. She had drunk, he thought ruefully, almost certainly more wine than she had ever taken in before, plus a glass of ouzo, and only then had she seemed enthusiastic for his advances. But she had been enthusiastic enough, he told himself with a faint smile of satisfaction, once they were in bed together.

He dressed quickly and left the flat quietly. The roads were almost deserted and he made record time into the centre of London and parked outside the Delilah Club, on the edge of Soho, where Ray Robertson’s Jag and a Mercedes he did not recognize were lined up. The main doors were unlocked and he found a huddle of men sitting round a table close to the bar, a half-empty bottle of malt whiskey in the centre and used glasses all around, with a fug of cigar and cigarette smoke lingering overhead. Ray Robertson and Fred Bettany faced Frankie Falzon and a couple of heavy men Barnard did not recognize. If they had been talking before he came in they were not talking as he wove his way through the empty tables to join them. Ray offered Barnard no more than a grim smile while Falzon turned in his chair, his expression carved from stone.

‘Take a seat, Flash,’ Robertson said waving a hospitable hand, but his eyes were angry. For a moment there was silence, broken eventually by Falzon.

‘I like certainty, Sergeant,’ he said to Barnard. ‘I do not like people who do not keep their agreements. It makes life more difficult than it ought to be.’

Ray Robertson bristled at that but, glancing warily at Barnard, seemed to decide to bite back his objections to Falzon’s barely veiled accusation.

‘I suggested to Mr Falzon that you were the person who probably knows as much as anybody about what is going on in Soho at the moment, with these unfortunate killings,’ Fred Bettany broke in smoothly. ‘Mr Falzon has been abroad recently and is not as fully in touch as he normally is. We – or Ray, I should say – thought you might be able to help.’

Fred talked as though he was smoothly addressing some boardroom meeting in the city instead of what looked like a dangerous stand-off between two of London’s most successful and dangerous criminals, Barnard thought. He had no doubt that there was at least one murderer around the table, and possibly more, and that his chances of ever proving that were virtually nil. In which case simply helping to keep the peace on the streets looked like a sensible option.

Robertson found an unused glass and poured Barnard a drink, which he sipped slowly for a moment giving himself time to think. ‘Let’s look at the problem from the beginning,’ he said quietly. ‘There have been some new girls on the street recently, very young and not obviously working for the usual people. We’ve noticed them, and obviously now he’s back in London, Mr Falzon has noticed them too.’

Falzon nodded and made an angry growl in his throat. ‘My boss was not too bothered until one girl was found dead, murdered, and then, naturally, we took an interest. She was badly bruised and battered, half strangled and killed by a stab wound to the heart from a very sharp knife.’

Barnard paused to accept Robertson’s offer of a cigar which he took his time to cut and light and draw on thoughtfully, watching Robertson and Falzon closely. But neither Robertson’s blue eyes or Falzon’s dark ones gave anything away.

‘Jenny Maitland was a fifteen year old from Clapton,’ Barnard began, ‘who was recruited by a man called Ricky Smart to work as a model at Andrei Lubin’s photographic studio where Ricky himself was a general fixer for Lubin. Lubin eventually got rid of Jenny and she ended up on the streets, although quite how that happened we don’t know. But she wasn’t the only one. A succession of girls seem to have taken exactly this path: brought to the West End by Smart, employed for a short time by Lubin as models, and then on the game soon afterwards. So we naturally began to ask who’s running them? Was it you, Mr Falzon? Were you using Smart as an efficient recruiter of fresh new blood?’

The Maltese stiffened and shook his head angrily.

‘Or was it you, Ray, deciding not to leave prostitution to Mr Falzon, as you’d agreed for years?’

Ray Robertson snorted. ‘I’ve other fish to fry,’ he muttered.

Barnard nodded at the two of them with a faint smile that he hoped was placating. ‘Or the third possibility. Was Smart trying to set up in the business on his own account, perhaps with some help from the people at the Jazz Cellar where some of these girls seemed to hang out? We were looking at all these possibilities,’ Barnard went on. ‘Then someone upped the ante. We had made very little progress on the Jenny Maitland case, even after my DCI insisted on raiding the jazz club. All we got out of that was a black musician with marijuana stashed away in his saxophone case. But then things got really out of hand when someone slit Ricky Smart’s throat – another very sharp knife, perhaps the same sharp knife – and the DCI began asking why, and who might be next? Was this the end of something or just the beginning of something very much bigger and bloodier?’