Gilded Edge, The (38 page)

‘They can make lots of money, but can they get away with murder?’

‘No one’s saying that, Vincent. But that little coterie at the Montcler have a lot of political firepower. They’ve got friends in both the Lower and Upper Houses. Practically every peer of the realm who likes to gamble, and most do, have dealings in the Montcler. Five or six key Cabinet members, a dozen or so in the Opposition. Even our own Commissioner has been known to play a hand or so. As for Beresford’s joke with Dominic Saxmore-Blaine, about taking over a small country in West Africa, it’s not looking so funny now.’

‘It never did. Nicky DeVane told me that Beresford’s father served with Sir David Stirling, the Scottish laird who organized the SAS.’

‘Of course.’

‘Beresford was a failed SAS man himself. He couldn’t make the cut, but he still had the ambition.’

At this, Mac smiled and shaped his mouth for a silent ‘Ahhhh’. It was clear that he and Vince were reading from the same manifesto. Mac said, ‘Britain’s no longer a real power on the world stage, as we don’t have the firepower. It’s America and Russia that are the top dogs now. They’re the ones who came out as the real victors in the Second World War, and they’re the ones who shout the odds. So what do we do instead?’

‘Complain about the weather?’

‘Private forces. And by that I mean privately funded armies going into countries that are strategically or economically profitable to us, and stirring things up among dissatisfied locals. That’s what Stirling and his band did in the Yemen. It was public knowledge, if you bothered to look.’

‘And you did?’

‘Since this case came up involving the Montcler, and from what my friend in the City told me, I thought it was worthwhile getting into. Just to see what we’re up against. From what I can tell, they’re working on behalf of the British government with the implicit dictate that if it all goes wrong, they’re on their own and the government can’t be blamed. Big wars are too expensive, and failure too humiliating, but small privately backed ones where Britain benefits, and gets to reinstate some of its power and influence in the world, that’s the way things are going. And the kind of men who can provide such backing gather around the tables at the Montcler.’

‘Your friend told you all this?’

‘He told me some of it. The rest gets backed up by history and economics. All of which I take an interest in.’

‘So Beresford was killed because he was drunk and began opening his big mouth about the coup?’

‘If there is a coup, then, yes, that seems as likely a scenario to me as any other. But I’ve got a feeling this is nothing you hadn’t thought of already, right?’

Vince emitted a meditative humming sound, then said clearly, ‘My money is on the two mackintosh men killing Beresford. If they are South African secret service, it fits in nicely. Maybe they were working alongside the British spooks?’

‘Vincent, we could speculate like this till our heads dropped off.’

To get that on the way, there followed some considered nodding of heads from the two detectives as they surveyed the territory they were in. Sex, death and power; the messy prints of a British political scandal were all over this case. Like the Profumo stink-up of a few years back, but without the iconic photography and the snappy one-liners. And with far more corpses.

‘So now, Vincent, the thing to do is for you to prove it’s not all a joke gone wrong, and maybe bring down a government whilst you’re doing it.’

Vince stared at the older detective, pipe jammed in mouth, and saw he was being deeply ironic with that last statement. His was a long gaunt face that suited irony.

‘So what’s the alternative, let them get away with murder?’

‘There is no
them
, Vincent. Asprey, Goldsachs, Ruley, DeVane – it goes beyond
them
. You’re up against the grey men. I mean the grey men stalking the corridors of Whitehall, making decisions and reaching out to their old-school-tie friends for support. They’ve got more power than the men at the dispatch box, because the men at the dispatch box come and go. But the grey men are always there, keeping the whole thing ticking over.’

With that, Mac finished off the last of the grapes he had brought, and was gone.

Vince did the only thing that was available to him – apart from throw off the sheets and do a jig on the bedside table – so he lay there and thought about Mac’s lecture on the brave new world of post-war British imperialism. Mac was right: it was nothing that hadn’t already crossed his mind. A mind that even he recognized, if left unchecked, became fertile ground for conspiracies and machinations. But it struck him as disconcerting that Mac, ever the most evenly balanced of men, should have espoused such a theory. If he, the voice of reason, thought something was rotten in the state of Denmark, you could bet your bottom krone that it was in fact a festering bubonic cesspit. Then he thought about Mac’s friend in the markets, and wondered if there really was such a friend. Or if Mac had himself been called into some gloomy room deep in the bowels of Whitehall to face a crescent of seated grey men telling him to keep a lid on his young colleague before a nasty accident befell him. Again.

Two weeks later, and Vince was out of the hospital. His body still carried the bruises but they were fading fast and he felt he was getting back to full fitness and form. But he had changed, for he didn’t know if he could take a beating like that again. He felt totally raw; he felt as if his attackers had dipped into his reserve, helped themselves to that bit extra that gave him the confidence to go toe-to-toe with just about anyone, and also the knowledge that he could soak up a beating better than most and yet spring back to his feet again and dole out double. This feeling of uncertainty they’d left him with made him angry, and hungry – hungry for revenge, and to even up the score. He wanted to call them
friend
in return. He wanted to pound skin, hear bones break and have
their
blood-soaked pleas in his ears. He wanted to shock them in return, turn the handle and send them to hell with the entire national grid coursing through them.

It takes a beating like that to make you realize just what you are: a bundle of delicately put together humanity, 80 per cent water and a bag of soft tissues, breakable bones and painful nerve endings. The beating had aged him, thrown him ten years into the future and caused his step to falter. No bad thing, he was sure Mac would say. Maybe that’s why the older detective, after reading the medical report and discovering there was no permanent damage, had put a wry smile on his face.

After a further two weeks convalescing at home, Vince was fully on his feet, pacing his flat and working up ideas. And the first one that struck him – the alpha in the pack, the one that had been jostling for his attention ever since his eyes had opened in the hospital and he was reasonably compos mentis – was to make a return visit to the Kitty Cat club in Camden Town. With or without his badge, he still wanted answers. And, whilst he wasn’t too bothered about not having a badge to brandish to get the job done, he was worried about not having some other form of backup to brandish when the job needed a little more emphasis. It was all part of the ‘New Caution’ he was adhering to.

So, before Vince went to Camden Town again, he made some phone calls, and was given the name of a fellow in Kings Cross called Shinny Vaccarro. Shinny was Shinny because he was small, about up to your shins being the reckoning. Of course he wasn’t
that
small, but the underworld is a world of ready nicknames and gross exaggerations that, once given, tend to stick. Shinny Vaccarro was also an armourer, an underworld quartermaster. He had a good rep, since all his guns were clean, untraceable. He serviced the underworld, naturally, but he also serviced the other side – whenever clean and untraceable guns were called for. It took some greasing of palms and some straightening out, but eventually Vince met up with Shinny in a pub on the Gray’s Inn Road.

Shinny was improbably tall, about six foot something, heavyset, ginger-haired, ketchup-cheeked and spattered with freckles. And he was obviously not Shinny Vaccarro at all, more like Mick O’Malley. Still, in the private bar he introduced himself as ‘Shinny’, and Vince got the mixed message that either he worked for Shinny or no one got to meet Shinny. Or maybe, just maybe, Shinny didn’t exist. Either way, Vince wasn’t much interested in the ins and outs of Shinny Vaccarro, and he came away from the meeting with what he wanted: a snub-nose Colt .38.

Vince parked the car in more or less the same spot he had parked it the last time he was in Camden Town, just off Parkway. As he made his way to the Kitty Cat club he was sure he could smell chloroform in the air. The sky was grey and bruised, and looked like crying its thunderous heart out at any moment. So there were a good few people stalking the streets in beige trench-coat style macs. His eyes searched for the two men. His fists buried in his coat pocket were balled and ready to go. The gun in his shoulder holster was loaded.

‘That’s a scary-looking face you’re wearing, cock,’ said Trixie, the Marlene Dietrich MC. She was sitting on a tall bar stool in the mirrored reception area of the club. As it was afternoon, she hadn’t yet changed into her top hat, tails and stockings, but instead was in a pair of Levi’s and a checked shirt. On the remark, Vince dropped the paranoid scowl he’d been wearing and pulled a convivial grin. His face no longer ached, but he still wasn’t up to speed on smiling as readily as he once had, and maybe he never would be again.

‘That’s better, handsome.’

‘You remember me?’

‘Of course I remember you – the detective.’

‘Is Bernie about?’

‘Haven’t seen him in yonks,’ she said, retrieving a large cigar from a handbag sitting on top of the small reception desk. It was faux crocodile, and it held the faux lobster that she dragged around on a lead. She lit her cigar with the unwieldy blue petrol flame of a brass Zippo lighter, paying him careful attention as she did so. ‘You look like you’ve been in a punch-up, lover boy.’

‘I was. Just a shame I was sitting down with my hands tied behind my back when it happened. That’ll teach me. So where’s Bernie?’

She shrugged. ‘We’ve got another feller working the door here now. She’s not as sweet as Bernie, to be honest. I don’t think she approves of us.’

‘She?’

‘All the men are shes and hers and all the women are hims and hes and cocks and pricks.’

‘I see. Then how come you called me “cock”?’

She shrugged. ‘Relax, you silly little tart. There’s no rules to these things!’

He laughed. ‘And this new doorman . . . she’s a prude, eh?

‘And you’re not?’

‘Live and let live, I say, as long as it doesn’t frighten the horses.’ She laughed at that. ‘Tell me, the new doorman, what did
she
have to say about Bernie?’

‘Ha! You learn fast.
She
doesn’t say a lot. Larry scares her, you see. She doesn’t get Larry.’

‘Larry?’

‘Larry the Lobster, silly.’

Marlene Dietrich puffed a cloud of smoke in the direction of the plastic crustacean sticking out of her imitation-crocodile handbag on the counter.

‘Of course, silly me.’

‘Believe me, girl, I did question cunty about Bernie, but the dim bitch really didn’t seem to know. You see, I like Bernie. We always chatted, about films, about plays we’d seen. My cock likes squiring me off to the West End for a spot of play watching and a good musical.
Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington
, don’t
put your daughter on the stage
. I’ll tell you one thing about Bernie, Officer Krupke, she seemed rather out of sorts of late, and no mistake. Not her normal self these last few weeks. Depressed, I’d say. She’s a big old bird, I’ll grant you, but she’s a sensitive soul is our Bernie.’

‘I need to talk to him . . . her. Do you have an address?’

She didn’t. Or he didn’t. But then it turned out she did – or he did. It took some persuasion, but Vince made it clear to Marlene Dietrich that Bernie Korshank wasn’t in trouble. But he knew why Bernie was depressed, and Vince was in a position to alleviate that state of affairs with some information he had for him. Not all lies.

Marlene Dietrich’s information was good and took him to a small flat in Stamford Hill. Bernie Korshank’s wife was a small woman, very small – comically so, considering how big Bernie was. She was Polish and spoke in very polite but very broken English. Everything had ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ before or after it. But it wasn’t just her limited grasp of English that forced these mannerly platitudes, for they seemed genuinely heartfelt.

Vince got the impression that there had been real hardship and sorrow in her past. In her mid-forties, the war wasn’t too distant a memory for her, and Poland and the Jewish ghetto had felt the deathly grip of fascism more keenly than most. And yet here she was, a survivor, just happy and relieved to be living on these free shores, in the Jewish community of Stamford Hill, another enclave but one that wasn’t fenced off and starving, and about to be relocated to a death camp.

The flat was pink and peach and everything in it was chintz and busy, and cosy beyond belief – or desire for most men. It seemed as unlikely a milieu for Bernie Korshank as any Vince could imagine, since everything here seemed just too small, dainty and fussy for the big bouncer. Including the little Polish wife, who was maybe five foot at a stretch, even in high heels – and those were the kind of heels she looked as though she didn’t possess.

Vince’s eyes were drawn to the panoply of paintings that covered almost every inch of the walls, walls that were themselves already in full bloom with colourful floral wallpaper. The ornately framed paintings depicted places that looked as if they didn’t exist except in fairy stories or on chocolate boxes. Country-scene idylls with waterfalls and pointy turreted castles in the background, and muslin-frocked and bonneted shepherdesses tending their sheep with smiles on their faces – the shepherdesses
and
the sheep. It was all quite an eyeful but, after what she might have seen over the years, who could deny her freedom to surround herself with such an idealized narrative of the world.