Mask of the Verdoy (42 page)

‘Oh, come on, Jonno,’ she said, reaching up to place a hand on the side of his handsome face. ‘Be a sport! I just wanna slip inside and see if my big brother’s here. Then I’ll go and see Vern afterwards.’ She stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. ‘
We’ve always been mates, ain’t we?
’

‘Sorry, Sal,’ he said, dwarfing her hand in his and leading her off towards the stairs. ‘But this is business.’

As she began a half-hearted struggle Jonno cupped his hand over Sal’s mouth and threw her over his shoulder. He hoisted her up two flights and knocked on one of the doors, which was immediately flung open by Vern Slater. Jonno ducked to get through the doorway, dumped his burden unceremoniously on the bed, received a tip from Slater and was out again in an instant and back down the stairs to mind the door.

The wide-boy turned the key in the lock. When he finally spoke his voice was quiet and menacing.

‘Where the fuck is he, Sal?’

‘Who’s that, then?’ said Sally, sitting up and pulling her compact out of her bag to attend to her dishevelled hair.

Slater was across the room in a couple of strides. He snatched the compact from her hand and crushed it beneath his heel.

‘Jack Portas, you stupid bitch! You were under strict instructions not to turn up tonight without him! Now—
where the fuck is he?
’

‘I dunno—I left him at The Star … he’s probably still there for all I know.’

As Slater grabbed her by the hair Sally let herself go limp, prepared by previous experience for a short, frenzied beating; knowing that it might be prolonged by any form of resistance. But when she glanced briefly into Slater’s eyes she saw something new there, something that he hadn’t let her see before; and something that disturbed her far more than the expected rage—his fear.

‘You stupid mare! D’you realize what you’ve done? This was my last chance—
my last chance!
Have you any idea what he’ll do to us when he finds out you’ve fucked up again?’

Sally had just managed to purse her lips to pronounce
who
, when there was a loud knock at the door.

‘
Slater!
Is that you in there? Do open up, there’s a good boy.’

‘Oh, shit!
Shit!
’ said the wide-boy under his breath before rushing over to fumble with the lock.

‘Mr. Quigg, come in, come in!’

Quigg made a brief check of the interior before entering the room and closing the door behind him. He took off his homburg, placed it on the hat stand, and then walked over to the window, where he drew back the curtain an inch or so to check on his men stationed in the street below.

‘Well Vernon,’ he said, still looking out of the window. ‘We appear to be missing someone.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Quigg; there’s been a little hitch. But, listen—I’ll tell you what I’ll do—’

‘
Shush!
’ said Quigg, turning from the window and placing his gloved forefinger to his lips. ‘I’m afraid you had your chance—and it would appear that you’ve squandered it.’

The policeman now walked across to the bed and tilted Sally’s head up by the chin, looking her over as though he were buying a slave at a market. He withdrew his hand and inspected the fingertips of his beige kid gloves. He gave a long sigh and shook his head.

‘You know Slater, I really am disappointed in you. I had you down as a man of ambition, drive. After all, we’ve spoken on many occasions of your desire to get on in the world, to better yourself. And yet, here we are, at the first opportunity for you to demonstrate your initiative and prowess …’ Quigg held his hand out to indicate Sally sitting on the bed, her hands between her knees, staring at the floor. ‘Disappointing.’

Slater hovered in the middle of the room, watching Quigg’s every move, waiting for a chance to try to talk his way out of the fix. But he sensed—correctly—that it would be best to stay quiet for the moment.

‘You see, Vernon, the part that astonishes me—and understand that I am a man not easily astonished—is that even the most depraved wog-pimp in the slums of Cairo, even the hobnail-livered tramp-ponce working the hay-tits in the backwaters of Norfolk, even they, Vernon, have a command over their whores. And yet, there you stand, in your knocked-off five guinea suit, here, in the greatest city in the world, with absolutely no control over this … little … 
slut!
’

Quigg now moved over to the hat stand and removed his gabardine before walking back to the bed to regard Sally. Slater’s gaze fell on the bump in the jacket made by the policeman’s service revolver.

‘Miss Sally Highstead? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure … Miss Highstead? I think you’ll find it’s polite to acknowledge a greeting from one of your superiors.’

Sally raised her face and attempted a smile, a gesture which was immediately met by a savage blow from the back of Quigg’s hand, sending her sprawling across the bed. Although in pain, she lay quite still, trying desperately to control the sobbing that had begun to heave in her chest.

‘Please, Mr. Quigg,’ said Slater, taking a tentative step towards the policeman. ‘Please show me a way out of this—I’ll do anything, you know I will!’

Quigg pulled his fob watch from his waistcoat and popped the cover. Although irked by Slater’s incompetence he was far too experienced to have left such an important assignment solely in the hands of a wide-boy and his mott, and therefore had commissioned his own man to shadow Portas Senior for the last twenty-four hours.
There was still plenty of time to see the plan through to the desired conclusion.

He regarded the petty criminal for a moment, enjoying the way he was squirming on the end of the hook.

‘Where is Portas, Slater?’

‘The old man? He’s at The Star—in Phipp Street, Shoreditch.’

‘You can be certain of that?’

Slater glanced at Sally, still strewn on the bed. He swallowed awkwardly, trying to moisten his dry mouth.

‘I think so … that is—he ought to be.’

With a flourish Quigg flipped his watch back into his waistcoat pocket.

‘Very well. I shall give you one more chance—although I’m bound to regret it. You will go to Phipp Street escorted by two of my men in a Q car. You’ll enter the pub and lure Jack Portas out. Use any story you like, lie as if your life depends on it …’ Quigg gave him a thin smile, ‘… as well it might. Once he is out in the street, away from the eyes of his fellow drinkers, my men will take over. They’ll bring him back here where we shall continue with the plan as arranged. How long will that take you?’

‘I reckon we could have him back here within the hour, Mr. Quigg. I’d lay good money on it.’

‘Oh, come now, Vernon! I think we both know the stakes are a little higher than that. Let’s hope for your sake that he’s still there; if he’s not … well, I shall have to go after him with other resources. And then you’ll be out of the picture, my boy … in more ways than one.’

‘He will be there, Mr. Quigg. After all, he practically lives in that old pub.’

Eager to show his enthusiasm Slater walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. ‘I’ll be off right away. Which motor is it?’

‘Not so fast!’ said Quigg, pulling a small leather-bound case from the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘I need your assistance with something here first.’

‘’Course, Mr. Quigg—anything you say. What is it?’

As Slater got closer he saw the glint of chrome from the opened case in Quigg’s hand. The policeman turned it to reveal two charged syringes.

‘Morphine—one for Red Jack and the other for our little doxy here. Although, truth be told, there’s probably a sufficient dose in just one of these for the two of them.’

Although still stunned from the blow to her face, Sally had heard enough of Quigg’s plan to realize she was now in very real danger. Kicking out as hard as she could at the policeman she scrambled off
the bed and made for the door … but she was far too slow—even as her hand clasped around the door knob she felt the hard bite of the Webley’s muzzle thrust into the small of her back.

‘Leaving so soon, Miss Highstead? But the party’s only just begun!’ Twisting the gun spitefully into her flesh Quigg now grabbed a handful of hair and pushed his face in close to her ear. ‘And don’t try screaming, you little slut! I’d shoot you in the blink of an eye.’ He turned to Slater, still standing wide-eyed by the bed. ‘Handcuffs! In my coat pocket.
Come on man! I haven’t got all day!
’

Now manacled and sobbing wildly Sally was thrust back down onto the bed.

‘Turn her over!’ barked Quigg, laying the pistol down on the grubby eiderdown to remove one of the syringes from the case.

As Slater grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, Sally looked at him with pleading eyes, gasping between the sobs.

‘
Please, Vern … please, no!
’

‘Don’t you look at me!
Don’t look at me, you bitch!
’

Slater rolled her facedown and grabbed her ankles, leaning on them to prevent her from kicking out again.

Quigg wrenched up Sally’s skirt. She felt the cold air on her skin as he tore at her underwear to expose her. Just before the syringe pierced her thigh she managed to get out a single cry for help: ‘
Charlie!
’

Slater reached over to clamp his hand around her mouth as Quigg injected the morphine. Sally began to thrash her head about, biting at Slater’s fingers, writhing around, trying her best to break free.

But it was no use, the men were too strong for her and she’d soon exhausted her efforts.

She lay still. Her sobbing began to ease, her breaths becoming shallower … until, in a blessed wave of relief, it didn’t matter anymore that she couldn’t break away … nothing mattered anymore, nothing except the warm surge of the morphine, submerging the pain … drowning out the noise … drowning out the fear.

‘
Charlie
…’ she whispered, and then was lost to oblivion.

‘Charlie? And who exactly is this Charlie, then?’ asked Quigg, with an arched eyebrow.

‘I’m buggered if I know, Mr. Quigg,’ said Slater, crouching down to peer closely at Sally’s face. He licked his dry lips. ‘Will it kill her, d’you think?’

‘I jolly well hope so, Slater! After all, that
is
the plan. Portas will be found dead in this whore’s bed, both of them having succumbed to their pernicious addiction.’

‘Was that
always
the plan, Mr. Quigg? That Sal and the old fella would cop it together?’

Quigg delivered one of his thin smiles.

‘Of course.’

‘Right, I see.’

Slater stood for a while, gazing at Sally’s almost inert body. There was just the faintest discernible rise and fall of her chest to indicate the remnants of life. Hit with the enormity of what he was witnessing something now made Slater reach down and begin to rearrange her clothing.

‘Oh no, Vernon,’ said Quigg, grabbing his wrist to prevent him covering the lily white flesh. ‘I think we’ll leave her be, just like that, don’t you? After all, she should serve some purpose—and we need to make things look authentic.’

‘Sorry, Mr. Quigg?’

The policeman removed a glove and stroked the goose-pimpled buttock.

‘After all, she is still warm.’

He stood to take off his jacket and hang it on the hat stand. He then turned to Slater.

‘It’s the Q car parked up on the left as you leave the club; you can’t miss it. Tell DC Webbe that I sent you to lure out Portas so that they can deliver him here—Plan B. You’ll make sure you close the door on the way out, won’t you, Vernon?’

Quigg started to unbutton his fly.

‘Oh, I … I …’

‘Come on man, time is against us! After all, one doesn’t want to be meddling with a corpse. And there’s the physical evidence to think of—I’d like to leave a little something for the pathologist.’

‘Yes! Of course, Mr. Quigg!’ exclaimed Slater, rushing for the door. ‘I’ll be back before you know it … with old man Portas in tow!’

‘This is your last chance, Slater,’ murmured Quigg, running a hand slowly down Sally’s inner thigh. ‘Your last chance … remember that, now.’

Slater slammed the door behind him and took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time. Then he paused, panting as much from the adrenaline coursing through his veins as from the sudden exertion. After all, this was the real thing—accessory to murder,
two
murders, if he went along with the plan to lure Jack Portas back to the flat. Then there was the dope, and whatever else Quigg was up to right now with Sally; although a senior bogey engaging in a bit of the old slithery with a pooter—even if she was nearly a corpse—that probably wasn’t even an offense. But murder was—that was for sure. That led to a little swing under the stick, and Vern Slater had other plans for his immediate future.

So—what were his chances of escape? Instead of exiting through the main entrance he could enter the club proper and then slip backstage and out through the door that led from the dressing room to the small courtyard where the girls sunned themselves on summer afternoons. From there it would be easy enough to haul himself up and disappear into the labyrinth of Soho backstreets.

But what then? Where could he possibly go in the city to guarantee he’d be out of reach of Quigg’s poisonous tentacles?

Nowhere, that’s where.

So, what were the alternatives? There was a DC south of the water that he used to do a little narking for—maybe he could put a call in, warn him about the murders, do a deal … Or there was always Max Portas. After all—he was an MP, that had to count for something, didn’t it? He could get a message to the politician—explain what Quigg had in store for his old man.

Slater sat down on the step and held his head in his hands. Who was he kidding? Who’d believe a no-good wide-boy like Vern Slater over Detective Inspector Aloysius P. Quigg? And even if they did believe him, Quigg was far too slippery to get caught. No, if he tried to put the squeak in on the bogey he’d end up copping the lot himself; and before you knew it he’d be shaking hands with one of Jack Ketch’s mob. There was no getting out of it—he’d have to go through with Quigg’s plan.

He stood up and began to negotiate the last few steps. As he did so, through the crack in the curtain that separated the stairs from the small passageway to the lobby, he caught a glimpse of Charlie Highstead, roaring down the steps from the street.