Mask of the Verdoy (18 page)

Pearson holstered his gun and then pointed to the boy on the pavement.

‘Do you think we should—’

Harley shook his head.

‘Look at his neck, mate. He’s long gone.’

From a distant street came the trill of a police car’s bell.

‘Here come the cavalry … Here, look at this …’ Harley pulled the package from his coat and started to unwrap the shawl. ‘This landed up in Lady Euphemia’s lap.’

‘Oh Christ, Harley—put it away!’

‘No, it’s important. I think it must be the driver’s. But look at the back of it—look at that tattoo … and remember—he had that big beard, an’ all.’

‘What about it?’

‘Something fishy, if you ask me. That character wasn’t your typical chauffeur … and I reckon this is about all that’s left of him.’

Harley now pointed to the text in faded green ink below the image of a wolf’s head.

‘That’s Cyrillic.’

‘Cyrillic?’

‘Russian … Here, hold onto it for a minute, won’t yer?’

‘Get off!’

‘No, listen,’ said Harley, pulling something else from his coat pocket. ‘I wanna get a photo of it, before Special Branch arrive and have it off us. That’s as long as this has survived the blast, of course.’

‘What’s that?’ said Pearson, holding the severed hand at arm’s length.

‘It’s a Leica—thirty-five millimetre.’

‘A camera? Blimey—it’s tiny!’

‘Yeah—she’s a beauty, ain’t she? We’re gonna need more light though—bring it over here, under the street lamp. I want to get a good record of that tattoo.’

Harley took a number of photographs of the hand, badgering Pearson to give him the best angle.

Just then a Q car drew up by the bomb crater.

‘Just in time—you’d better go and have a chat with your pals. Give me that here though.’

‘It’s evidence, Harley.’

‘Exactly—that’s why I don’t want those berks in CID getting their grubby mitts on it. This goes straight to Special Branch, right? Come on, Pearson—remember what the General said.’

Reluctantly Pearson wrapped the shawl around the hand and passed it back to the private detective.

‘Good boy … Whoa—
stop!
Don’t you move another inch!’

Harley grabbed the policeman by the shoulder and turned him slowly, pointing to the gutter. Resting on the grating of the drain was a stick of dynamite. He looked to the end of the street where a small group of locals had begun to gather.

‘We need to keep that lot back out of harm’s way. You’d better run and tell your boys we’ll need the army.’

‘Here …’ Pearson crouched down carefully to get a better look. ‘Isn’t that Russian writing? It’s like on the tattoo. Look, there … stamped on the wrapper.’

‘Shit!’ said Harley, going down on his haunches to take a picture of the official-looking logo. ‘Just wait till
The Oracle
gets wind of this.’

‘Well, hopefully that won’t happen.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Harley pointed to the two CID officers emerging from the Q car. ‘With that lot all over it like a rash I reckon a leak to the press is stone-ginger, don’t you?’

‘Stone-ginger?’

‘A dead cert in your language, Pearson, a dead cert.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hiding the anticipation on his face with a pull at his glass of stout, “Red” Jack Portas looked up from his newspaper as he heard the door to The Star’s saloon bar open. His old heart beat a little faster as he caught sight of the worn fur trim on the lapel of a woman’s coat … but it wasn’t Sally—just the seafood lady doing the rounds with her wicker basket of wares.

Silly old sod!
he thought, checking his watch again. ’
Course she ain’t gonna show …
But he didn’t really believe this. Despite the hard-man mask he showed to the world, Jack Portas was still a creature of passion and hope—it’s what had driven his politics through his career as a shop steward. And now his hope was that the pretty young girl who’d arrived so suddenly to brighten the monotony—like the frowsy songbirds he fed in the dreary communal yard at home—would honour her promise and justify the trust he’d placed in a complete stranger.

The previous week, as arranged, he’d met Sally in the pub and lent her the two pounds she’d needed to cover her rent. She’d been a breath of fresh air—relaxed and funny, and had vowed to return the loan in a week’s time, persuading him in the process to accompany her on a night out. And now—a week later—here he was, in the suit that he’d last worn to his dear Molly’s funeral, waiting with butterflies in his stomach like a sixteen-year-old virgin.

Jack pulled at the starched collar, downed the remains of his pint and got up for a refill.

As he waited in turn at the busy bar, he caught the tail end of a burst of snorted laughter and turned just in time to catch two young men sniggering with their heads together. It was obvious from the way they quickly turned their backs on him that the joke was at his expense. One of the jokers was well known to him—Terry Gibson’s son, Michael. The father had always been a subservient, weasely individual, scraping and fawning in front of a fellow’s face, but all too ready to stick the knife in when he wasn’t around—and if rumours were to be believed Terry Gibson had crossed the picket line at his
depot during the General Strike. But his son Michael was a different animal altogether—physically more impressive than his father, with the mouthy confidence of youth.

Jack caught the barmaid’s attention.

‘Pint of stout, please love.’

‘Right-you-are, Jack … Ooh, I say! We’re looking very smart tonight! You been robbing banks?’

Another snigger from his right.

The old stevedore changed his position at the bar, slipping into a space next to the two men. Gibson junior now turned around, a huge grin on his face.

‘Evening, Jack. How’re you keeping?’

‘Mustn’t grumble … How’s yer old man? Got plenty of work, has he?’

The grin fell from Gibson’s face at the thinly-veiled reference to his father’s strike-breaking reputation. The younger man shrugged and grabbed at his drink.

‘Dunno—don’t see much of the old codger nowadays.’

Gibson’s drinking partner now nudged him in the ribs, goading him on.

‘’Ere, Jack. My mate ’ere was just saying—nice whistle, that.’

‘You what?’

More sniggers from the sidekick, who had now buried his face in his pint.

‘It’s just that we saw you in here last week—with that little brama.’

Without taking his eyes of Gibson, Jack dropped his hands to his sides.

‘And, well, seeing you all togged up like that, we were just wondering …’

‘Go on.’

‘Well—does she give special rates for pensioners?’

Jack’s fist was clenched and driven hard into Gibson’s solar plexus before the younger man had time to laugh at his own joke. He dropped his glass—the beer splashing up against his shins—and went down onto one knee, gasping for air.

‘That was clumsy!’ said Jack loudly, bending down to pick up the empty glass from the puddle of beer. As he came back up he grabbed the younger man’s hair and whispered in his ear. ‘You wanna watch that fucking mouth of yours, son—it’ll get you into all sorts of grief … Now take your little girlfriend and fuck off round the other side! There’s a good boy!’

Jack placed the empty glass on the bar just in time to receive his pint of stout.

‘Thank you, love. And get him another one on me, will yer? He’s spilt that one—think I might have jogged him, by mistake like.’

The barmaid looked at Gibson, who was now slumped on a bar stool, fighting to fill his lungs. She gave Jack a knowing look.

‘We’re not gonna have any trouble now, are we Jack?’

‘Just here for a quiet drink—reading me paper.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

After paying for the beer Jack returned to his table and tried to immerse himself in his newspaper again; but the ribbing about Sally had hit a nerve. He looked around at his fellow drinkers, wondering how many more of them were sharing secret jokes at his expense—the silly old sod who’d been taken for a ride by a bit of skirt.

‘
Fuck ’em!
’ he murmured, and returned to the bar for a whisky chaser.

***

Forty minutes and four drinks later Jack was past the warm glow of empty-stomach drinking and well on the way to full inebriation … he was also fully resigned to the fact that he’d been stood up.

He crushed the remains of his roll-up into the ashtray and pulled himself up with a grunt—his lumbago had been playing up all week. Shuffling towards another drink the old stevedore stopped and gazed at the etched mirror behind the bar which held the reflection of a tired old man in a Burton suit. He suddenly felt hollow, as empty as the drained pint pot he held in his gnarled hand. He closed his eyes and struggled to summon his dead wife’s face … but without the help of the silver-framed portrait on his mantle-piece the features of the woman that he’d shared fifty years of his life with now hovered teasingly out of reach of his mind’s eye. But he could hear her voice, couldn’t he?
Jack … Jack …

Sally set her mouth in a smile and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.

‘
Jack
—what
are
you doing standing there with yer eyes closed? You alright?’

He jerked around, momentarily confused at not finding his wife standing before him.

‘What? Yeah—’course I am … Just ’aving a laugh, is all. Saw you in the glass, didn’t I?’

‘Gawd! You ’ad me worried there for a minute!’

She pecked him on the cheek and started to rummage through her handbag.

‘Sorry I’m late—had to sort something for a girlfriend of mine, couldn’t be helped I’m afraid.’

He touched his cheek where she had kissed him.

‘Well—you’re here now, ain’t yer? What’ll you have?’

‘Ooh, gin and It, ta! And Jack … I couldn’t have ten Player’s, could I? My mate had the last one off me earlier and I’m gasping for a smoke.’

‘Right-you-are … we’re sitting over there.’

He watched Sally flounce over to the table, taking great pleasure in this little display of youth and vivacity. It inspired him to grow an inch—straightening his back and puffing his chest, the pain in his lower back now pushed from his mind. As he walked proudly to the bar he searched the faces of the drinkers for any trace of mockery.

***

If Jack had been sober it might have taken longer for Sally to convince him that The Cat’s Whiskers was the perfect venue for their night out. As it was, within half an hour they had left the pub and were in a taxi on their way to Soho.

‘So what goes on at this gaff then, Sal?’

‘The club? Ooh, it’s lovely, Jack—real glamorous, you know?’

‘Not sure glamorous is my cup of tea, love—I told yer, a shant of wallop in the pub usually does me.’

‘Oh, but look at you—all togged up, you’ll fit right in.’

Jack placed a self-conscious hand to the knot of his tie.

‘D’you think?’

‘I work there, don’t I?’

She placed a reassuring hand on his knee and shuffled a little closer.

‘You wait to you see it—it’s like nothing else. They’ve got these coloured lights—all purple and red. I don’t know how they do it, but it’s like some kind of magic cavern … like in Aladdin or summit’. And the music! They’ve got their own band there, every night—Tyrone Stirling and his All Stars … Although, of course, he’s not really Tyrone, he’s Bert—from Croydon.’

‘Why does he call ’imself Tyrone, then?’

‘It’s show business, ain’t it? Like the movies—you can’t just have a normal name. Everyone knows that … Oh, but Jack, you should hear them play—just like an American band, they are. It’s so
dreamy
 … But my favourite’s the acts—comedians and dancers, singers—all sorts … and when you talk to them you find out they’re from places you’ve never even heard of—least, I haven’t, anyway. It’s all really … you know, what’s the word?
Zotic!
’

Jack looked at her and smiled.

‘You sound like a kiddie talking about Christmas.’

‘That’s
exactly
how it makes me feel.’

Sally snuggled up and laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Outside of the club everything seems boring, somehow, grey—you know? But in there it’s … Oh, you wait to you see it, Jack. You just wait!’

Sally closed her eyes for a moment and pictured herself at a table in the club, tossing her head back and laughing like Garbo, holding her cigarette elegantly, just so … allowing the trail of smoke to drift past her beautifully made-up face … turning to whisper in the ear of her suave companion—an immaculate naval officer, or maybe a millionaire businessman … receiving an urgent telegram from a messenger boy…

Then her thoughts drifted back to the sweet old man by her side and the night that lay ahead for them both—Vern’s little plan.

Beginning to feel a little sick at the prospect, Sally sat up and started to doodle in the condensation on the taxi window.

‘’Course, if you don’t think it’s up your street we could always go somewhere else … there’s plenty of nice little boozers round here.’

‘No, you got your mind set on it, Sal—we’ll go. I feel like having a blow out—been out of sorts a bit lately. Need something to pick me up, like.’

‘The prices are bit a steep, mind—not like in the pub.’

‘Don’t you worry about that, my gel.’

Jack surreptitiously thrust a hand into his jacket pocket to check his money. He’d started the night with four pounds. He couldn’t remember ever coming out with as much money for a night out before—more than the wages for a week of hard graft down the docks; but with all Sally’s talk of the high life he wasn’t sure what was expected of him. Besides, with Molly gone what did he have to spend his savings on anyway? After all—you couldn’t take it with you.

He quietly counted the coins and notes, satisfied that he’d only spent a crown in the pub; that left three pounds and fifteen shillings—any man could walk with his head held high with that kind of bunce in his barney.

‘Here we go, then,’ shouted the driver. ‘Dean Street!’

***

Sally led Jack carefully down the wet, narrow steps to the entrance of The Cat’s Whiskers. Halfway down the old stevedore stopped to gaze at the neon sign depicting a cat repeatedly tipping his top hat, fascinated with the vibrancy and novelty of the image.

‘Look at that Sal! Look at that! Well I’m buggered! How do they do that, then?’

Sally laughed and pulled him on.

‘Come on, silly! Let’s get inside, out of the cold.’

They were greeted in the lobby by Big Jonno. Jonno had originally arrived in the capital as a roustabout with the Bertram Mills Circus; but when Jerry Paladino—out on a day trip to Olympia with his young niece—had laid eyes on his impressive physique and boyish good looks, he’d quickly snapped him up as the perfect doorman for his new club. It hadn’t been difficult to lure Jonno away from circus life—as he said, sitting on a stool in a tuxedo for a few hours a night, surrounded by glamorous women and booze sure beat shovelling elephant shit for a living.

Jonno now closed the tattered paperback he’d been reading (which bore a lurid cover illustration of a girl in a ripped dress bound to a stake) and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He got up from his stool and arched his back, his huge chest straining the material of his dinner jacket.

‘Hello Sal, thought it was your night off?’

‘It is Jonno. But you know me—can’t keep away, can I?’

‘Brought a friend along, I see.’

‘That’s right—this ’ere’s Jack. I’ve been telling him all about it here.’

‘Alright, in you go then. You be good, now!’

Sal ushered Jack in ahead of her and as she passed Jonno he gave her a wink.

As they entered the carpeted corridor, the strains of a saxophone drifted out from the club ahead of them. Jack stopped, suddenly feeling extremely drunk. He turned to Sally.

‘It’s down here, right?’

‘’Course. Come on now—in we go!’

She dragged him down the corridor and into the vaulted subterranean space. They entered as the rest of the band joined the sax player in a sleazy, drawling version of “What is This Thing Called Love?” Jack stopped again to take it all in. The purple-red light that bathed the club’s interior seemed to pulse in time to the music, and with the thick ribbons of cigarette and cigar smoke it seemed to Jack that he’d stumbled into the pit of an inferno.

He looked to the small dance floor in front of the stage which was decorated with a geometric design—a vertiginous pattern of black and white lozenges which danced and swirled before the eye. On the dance floor one of the club’s escorts led a customer around in a clumsy
shuffle, the punter’s head slouched drunkenly on the girl’s shoulder with a greased wing of hair falling back at an angle from his bald pate.

Clutching his hand tightly Sally led Jack over to one of the small booths that lined the room.

‘Let’s sit here—it’s more private, but there’s still a good view of the stage.’

Jack nodded, still a little nonplussed by the surroundings.

‘Shall we get a drink, Jack?’

‘That’s a grand idea, gel.’

Jack looked around at the other tables, noticing a distinct lack of pint pots.

‘What’s the form here then, Sal? S’pose I’m not likely to get a decent pint.’

‘Well, no … it’s usually wine—or champagne for the high rollers, of course. And the girls like the cocktails. But I’m sure I can get Claude—he’s the barman, he’s French—to rustle up some bottles of beer. Jerry gets ’em in for the boys in the band; Bass I think it is—that alright?’