Hard Going (28 page)

There was an appetizing smell of food in the air, and the lunchers looked like office workers, the young noisily chatting in pairs and groups, older businessmen in suits talking seriously, singletons with tablets or mobile phones to occupy them. An old, squat, nut-faced man with long but thinning hair dyed aggressively black was sitting at the bar, in a worn grey suit with no tie, and nursing what looked like a glass of pastis. He clocked Slider and Atherton at once with professional eyes, black and noticing between half-closed lids, and before anyone else had had a chance to approach them he had caught a passing waiter by the arm and despatched him to bring them to him.

‘My friend! My friends!' the old man exclaimed with expansive insincerity, shaking their hands like a G-man doing a lightning pat-down. Slider wanted to count his fingers. ‘Come, sit down, sit down, have a drink with me! What will it be? A glass of raki – just right for this time of day. Stimulates the appetite, readies the stomach. Two glasses of raki for my friends,' he commanded the watchful youth behind the bar. ‘Sit, sit, you making the place look untidy!'

He smiled, showing several gold teeth in what was otherwise a menacing display. The boy slapped two tumblers of clear liquid and a small flask of chilled water down, followed by a bowl of olives, and removed himself to the other end of the bar.

‘Mr Berrak?' Slider asked, though he knew the answer.

‘Of course! And welcome to my humble restaurant. You will honour me by eating lunch here – at my expense of course.'

‘Thank you – you're very kind – but we aren't here to eat.'

Berrak shrugged, sipped his raki, and gave them a stripping-down sort of look, without even the semblance of bonhomie. ‘What is this about?' he asked in a low voice. ‘This morning enquiries about a customer. Now you here with more enquiries in your eyes. I begin to feel persecuted. I run an honest business here – and you are not my local police friends.'

Slider tried to look disarming. ‘I promise you we're not here to make trouble. And Mr Lillicrap has already told me I can trust you absolutely.'

The smile was back. ‘Ah, my friend Mr Lillicrap! How is he? A long time since he has eaten here. He likes my duck curry. He likes it very much.'

‘Yes, he told me it was excellent,' Slider lied. ‘I wanted to ask you some more questions about the man who lunched here last Tuesday, Mr Bygod.'

‘Already I told the young lady all I know. He booked the table. He came. He ate. He went. What more do you want?'

‘I'd like to know something about the person he met here.'

Berrak shrugged. ‘I don't remember. I don't remember him, okay? I get the name from the book, the time from the receipt. I don't know him, never seen him before, so I don't remember him.' He waved a hand. ‘So many customers, can I remember everyone who comes in?'

I bet you do
,
though
, Slider thought. He smiled. ‘Of course, I'm sure you can't. But perhaps the waiter who served him can help me? I wouldn't trouble you, but it is very important.'

‘How should I know who served him?' Berrak objected.

‘It will be on the till slip, won't it?' Slider said pleasantly. The till, he could see, was a modern electronic one, the sort on which the bills were made up with a table number and the waiter's name in case of disputes. ‘Or I could ask around your staff, if you prefer,' he added, knowing that Berrak would hate that. It would be too obvious to the punters that something was wrong. He gave Slider a scorching look, then addressed a rapid flood of Turkish to the boy behind the bar, who replied, received some instruction, and went away.

‘His name is Mesud. I bring him to you,' Berrak said. ‘Please sit here, drink your drink, try to look like customers, be discreet when you talk to him. He is a good boy. He is my sister's grandson so I know this. Do not upset him.'

‘I've no wish to upset anyone,' Slider said.

Berrak sighed and heaved himself off the stool to make way for a slender youth who had come out from the back and who, at a barked command from the boss, perched himself resignedly, facing Slider. He was olive skinned and dark-haired with full lips, luscious black eyes and long eyelashes like a gazelle's. Close to, he was not as young as his slenderness had at first implied – he looked closer to thirty than twenty. Berrak gave him one further instruction in Turkish and went away to schmooze the tables, perhaps to turn attention from what was happening at the bar. Slider took one quick glance around and was sure that no-one was interested – had not, indeed, even realized that the police were present. Professionals like Berrak often forgot the numbing indifference of the average punter to anything but his own concerns.

‘Now then, Mesud – that is your name?' Slider said, hoping that he spoke English and wasn't part of a devilish plot to make him look foolish.

But he said, ‘That's right,' in an ordinary London accent. ‘It's about the old bloke who had lunch here last Tuesday, is it? Uncle Ali said you lot was asking about him. I dunno if there's anything I can tell you. I didn't know him. I only knew the name from the reservations book.'

‘Lionel Bygod was his name,' Slider confirmed. ‘Had you seen him in here before?'

‘No, not that I remember. I mean, we get hundreds through here. He wasn't a regular, anyway.'

‘All right, tell me what you do remember.'

‘Well,' said Mesud, frowning, ‘he got here early, I remember that. He'd booked for half twelve, and it was only about quarter past, and he said was it all right to sit down and wait. Ever so polite. Lovely voice, he had, too – kind of rich, you know? Posh accent. Well, I showed him to his table – it was still quiet. The big rush starts half twelve. Well, he sat down and I offered him a drink and he said he'd wait for his guest to arrive, so I gave him a menu and left him alone.'

‘How did he seem?'

‘Seem?'

‘Happy, sad, worried?'

Mesud shrugged. ‘I dunno. He was just old. And polite, like I said.'

‘All right. So he waited, and his guest eventually arrived?'

‘Yeah,' he said, and some emotion flickered across his face. He lowered his voice. ‘It was a lady.'

‘Can you describe her?'

He glanced around conspiratorially, and lowered his voice still further, leaning in towards Slider. ‘Well, I say it was a lady. She was –
big boned
, if you get my drift.' He sat back, and gave them a significant nod.

Ah
, thought Slider, catching Atherton's quick glance with a strange mixture of satisfaction and disappointment.
So the lady was in fact a man
.

‘H
ow do you know?' said Slider.

Mesud gave him an almost hurt look. ‘Oh, come on!' he muttered. Another furtive glance. ‘Look, you can't let Uncle Ali know.'

‘Know what?'

‘Anything I tell you,' Mesud said with a hunted air. ‘He's well old-fashioned – you know what I'm saying?'

‘Fine,' said Slider, ‘but you haven't told us anything yet. Mr Bygod was with a lady who wasn't a lady. Can you describe her?'

‘Tall. Skinny. Maybe my age – maybe more. It's hard to tell under the make-up, you know? Not old, though – not old like him. Very good wig – looked like real hair. Quite good style – nothing overdone. She could have passed most places, long as the light wasn't too good. Maybe that's why they chose this place – it's dark in the daytime, like you see. But I was in a quake in case Uncle Ali clocked her. He's not into that stuff – calls it ungodly. I mean, dinosaur or what? And he can be rude to people. That's why I made sure to serve 'em.'

‘How friendly do you think they were? How did they behave towards each other?'

He frowned again. ‘Well, it's hard to say. It was a bit like a first date, to my mind. They were a bit nervous and stiff with each other. Not like they knew each other well. But it was …' He paused, thinking. ‘I dunno.
Not
like a date. Different.' Another pause. ‘But she was professional. I don't get it.'

‘How do you mean, professional?'

‘The make-up, the wig, the clothes – it was all put on right. Like I said, she could have passed, a lot of places.'

‘Did you hear Mr Bygod use a name?'

He shook his head.

‘Did you hear anything of what they were talking about?'

‘No. They stopped when I came to the table. It wasn't a lot of laughs, though.' His face cleared. ‘That was it. I said it wasn't like a date: she wasn't flirting with him, or trying to get off with him. It was more like – serious stuff. Like business.'

Slider pondered this. It didn't seem to get them much further forward, except to cast suspicions once again on Bygod's proclivities. ‘Have you seen the lady before?' he asked. ‘Or since?'

‘She's not been in here before,' he said. ‘But I think I know where she works. There's this club, down towards the corner of Brewer Street, the Gaiety. Tranny club, drag acts and so on. I go past it on my way to work from the station, and there's this poster of one of the acts, looks a bit like her.' He shrugged. ‘I can't get too close and look properly in case anyone sees me. Everyone round here knows my uncle, they'd tell him like a shot if I was seen looking at a place like that. I got to be careful. Half the people in Soho are my cousins.' He gave a furtive sideways look under his eyelashes. ‘He's looking at me now,' he said without moving his lips. ‘Wondering what I'm telling you. Don't let on,' he pleaded. ‘Make out I've not told you nothing.'

Slider gave a tiny nod, and seeing Berrak surging towards them, said aloud, ‘Well, thank you for your time, anyway. If you
do
think of anything that might help us, give us a ring.'

Mesud gave a sulky sort of nod and made his escape, though not without a look from his uncle searing enough to have stripped wallpaper.

‘Did you get what you want? Did he help you?' Berrak asked with his gold-studded shark's smile.

‘I'm afraid it looks like another dead end,' Slider said, ‘but thank you for letting us ask. If anything occurs to you about Mr Bygod's visit here, anything at all, please let us know. The smallest thing might help.'

Berrak answered with a bow. He swivelled on his small feet, hidden away down there under the swell of his overhang like the point of a spinning top, and ushered them towards the door. ‘Glad to help, glad to help. Come back any time. Come back and eat. Bring your friends. Always glad to see you.' The words had as much meaning as birdsong – it was just the sound he made.

The rain had stopped at last. The clouds were still wet-looking and dark grey, but they were becoming ragged, and even as they stepped out a shaft of sunlight poked its way through a gap and bounced blindingly off the wet pavement. Water was dripping fast off every edge and vertical surface and the cars were still making that swishing noise as they passed, but everything looked instantly more hopeful in the brighter light.

‘So,' said Atherton, ‘what was old Lionel doing with a drag queen? He was hanging out with the alternative culture after all – and I thought he'd done with all that.'

‘Maybe his lunch companion was asking his legal advice,' Slider suggested. ‘Mesud said it looked like business.'

‘Then why was he/she in full fig?' Atherton asked.

‘Well, I don't know,' Slider retorted. ‘Let's go and find out.'

The Gaiety – ‘Cute name,' said Atherton – looked like any other seedy club in the area: a ground-floor open foyer with an island box office, like an old-fashioned cinema, and beyond it the entrance to the stairs down to the cellar level guarded by a steel let-down gate. The neon sign on the street over the foyer was lit, the words Gaiety and Nitely separated by a cancan girl whose kicking leg went up and down – an illusion rather spoiled by daylight since you could see all three of her legs quite clearly.

On the foyer walls were glass-fronted cases containing posters for the various acts, and below the window of the box office was a bill which shouted in bold black capitals:

KITSCH CABARET!

BURLESQUE!

TOP DRAG ACTS!

TRANNY HEAVEN!

‘Just in case you didn't get it,' Atherton mentioned. He moved about, looking at some of the glazed posters of the stars. ‘I'm not reassured. There's one here called Eva Brawn. And the emcee's name is Hugh Janus. Subtle, or what?'

‘Why should they have to be subtle?' Slider said reasonably.

‘Or, my God, maybe it's his real name!'

‘Settle down,' said Slider. He was inspecting one that was on the street façade, to the right of the entrance, one that Mesud might have been able to see in passing. ‘I wonder if this is it? “Danielle LaMartine, the Parisian Songbird”. What d'you think?'

‘I think I want to go home.'

‘Stop whining. We're going in.' He had noted a security camera high up inside the foyer which had turned to look at them, so he stepped up to it and held up his warrant card. A few minutes later a concealed door in the side wall opened and a man came out. He was in formal black trousers but his white shirt was open at the neck and had its sleeves rolled up, indicating he was still off duty – the first show, Slider had noted from the box office was not until three.

‘Can I help you?' the man asked, with the complete lack of servility you can afford when you're eleven feet tall and so wide they could show movies on your back. His head was shaved, his arms were lavishly tattooed with dripping fangs of one sort or another, and his face was as bumpy as a sack full of knuckles – which was probably what it had been pounded with over the years.

Slider pulled himself up to his full, unimpressive height and projected all the silverback alpha-ness at his command. ‘It's not trouble,' he promised. ‘We're looking for social contacts of this man.' He offered their printout of a photograph of Bygod, and held it insistently until the man took it and looked at it. ‘We think he may have come here, or visited someone from your show.'