Mask of the Verdoy (6 page)

‘So why resurrect his theories now? There are many others that followed him—more sophisticated ideas, better new models for societies.’

‘I think you’re being a little naïve Harley, crediting these lunatics with such complex thought processes.’

‘
Never underestimate your enemy
—you taught me that. After all, we’re not talking about some mad loner working on his own, are we? From what I’ve read in the papers, it seems to me that the bombings have all been well-planned—which would suggest a certain level of organisation.’

‘A fair assumption.’

‘Do you have any leads at all?’

‘None that haven’t led us up the garden path.’

‘So, hold on—I understand that the powers-that-be are getting their knickers in a twist about revolutionary forces at work on our depressed streets; but you still haven’t told me why they, sorry—why
the King
—has brought you in as Commissioner. Surely your skills would be better used elsewhere. Couldn’t SIS have just lent you to Special Branch for a few months?’

‘Well, between you and me, Harley.’ Swales lowered his voice. ‘It would appear that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’

‘Meaning, exactly?’

‘Corruption—a long, deep varicose vein of it running through the Met. It seems that the scandal with Sir Leo Money, and that Sergeant Goddard affair … well, they were just the tip of the iceberg, by all accounts. Commissioner Horwood’s handling of those two cases left a lot to be desired. And unfortunately my predecessor, Viscount Byng, merely scratched at the surface of the problem. Consequently His Majesty has lost a little faith in our somewhat overzealous Home Secretary—Ambrose Box-Hartnell.’

‘ABH.’

‘Indeed, “ABH”—a rather apposite sobriquet; one can always rely on the great British public to sniff out the true essence of a man.’

‘Really? I’m not so sure. How do you explain the popularity of Sir Pelham Saint Clair then? I personally don’t see much difference between him and your Signor Mussolini—or that thug Hitler, for that matter.’

‘Ah! But there’s a great difference. You must admit that Sir Pelham—and it’s pronounced
Sinclair
you know, Harley, he’d be mortified to hear you call him
Saint Clair
—Sir Pelham is a thoroughly
British
kind of fascist. He is a baronet after all.’

‘As if that makes any difference—all the more dangerous, if you ask me.’

‘Oh, come now, George—I’m pulling your leg! Couldn’t resist a little poke at that chip on your shoulder—you were always so easily riled. Rest assured—the relevant people are keeping a close eye on Sir Pelham and his British Brotherhood of Fascists.’

‘Yes, but
who watches the watchmen
, eh? … Anyway, come on—The King?’

‘Ah yes, well. Over the last few years—for reasons that I shan’t go into now—His Majesty has granted me the honour of inviting me into his close circle of advisers. And having lost a little faith in his Home Secretary, he, shall we say, “applied a little pressure” in having me appointed as Commissioner—with the explicit instruction of tackling the endemic corruption … and also dealing with the immediate threat posed by these anarchist bombings.’

‘Blimey, that’s some brief! Rather you than me. And the knighthood?’

‘Ah yes, well—comes with the job I’m afraid.’

‘Well, good luck
Sir
Frederic! I’d say you’re gonna need it.’

Harley finished off his whisky. ‘Alright then—so what about me?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Why did you have me brought in? I thought I was getting lumbered.’

‘Ah. Well, you see, I’ve already implemented some new tactics—techniques you’d recognize from the SIS. One of which is to try to get better cross-communication between the Borough Operational Command Units. You know the sort of thing—sharing relevant intelligence. I’ve brought a couple of my best chaps over with me from the Firm; we’re doing a whirlwind tour of the stations, bit of a “meet and greet” affair. One of the directives is for the station commanders to make a review of all the cases in the last six months and highlight any reports involving foreign nationals, to pick up anything that we may have missed regarding these anarchist johnnies, d’you see?’

‘How can you be so sure that this group are foreigners?’

‘We can’t be sure—but on review of the evidence so far, I’d say it’s a fair assumption; certainly a line of enquiry that needs following up. So we arrive here at Savile Row, the Chief Inspector shows me how the process is being carried out. I happen to flip open the file on top of the pile on his desk and scan through the details—suicide of a male prostitute, and so on … foreign national on the balcony, and so on … and then, there it is: owner of property—George Harley, private detective.
Quite a coincidence
, I think. And then it occurs to me:
George Harley
—just the man I need on board!’

Harley immediately stood up and grabbed his hat from the desk.

‘Oh no! Uh uh—no way! I’m long done with all that malarkey …’

‘Wait, George! Hear me out, at least!

Harley looked at his watch and then slumped back down in the seat with a sigh.

‘Go on then, you’ve got five minutes. But this had better be good.’

‘Give me your opinion on that young boy’s death in your house—murder or suicide?’

‘Murder.’

‘Detective Inspector Quigg thinks otherwise.’

‘Detective Inspector Quigg is a wrong-un.’

‘Ah.’

‘And by the way, before you go on, I’m not buying the old
I just happened to be flicking through the files
routine. What’s got you so excited about this case?’

Swales released another plume of smoke and smiled broadly.

‘Apologies, George—I can’t divulge that.’

‘Well then, it was nice seeing you again, FW—’

‘Sit down, won’t you! Blast it, man! You’re up and down like a whore’s bloomers! Alright now, listen! The deceased was a one …’ Swales referred to a piece of paper in front of him. ‘… Aubrey Phelps, aged nineteen—born in Bicester, Oxfordshire, to a Cecil and Eileen Phelps. At the time of his death he was actively engaged in male prostitution—’

‘And why exactly would the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police need to know so much about little Aubrey Phelps?’

‘Because, George, he was the third young male prostitute to be found dead in the past month; all as the result of a fatal wound to the wrist from a bladed instrument—probably a razor—and all investigated by our friend Quigg. And as dire as the present situation may be, murder is still—thankfully—a relatively rare occurrence in this fair city of ours.’

‘Christ! How have you managed to keep this out of the papers? The press usually lap this kind of stuff up.’

‘Because Quigg has recorded them all as suicides—case closed, no further action.’ Swales referred to his notes again. ‘Three victims: Aubrey Phelps; a John or
Jack
Brewster, seventeen, of no fixed abode; and a Billy Ray, also-known-as Billy Simmons—although it’s likely that neither was his real name—again of no fixed abode, age unknown.’

‘And no one else picked up on it?’

‘Not until I had my people review the cases. You see my problem—it’s not just Quigg who’s acting with irregularity, but his superiors as well.’

‘Acting with irregularity? It
stinks
FW! And you know it.’

‘God’s trousers man! Keep your voice down! Now, I’ll admit it certainly looks like that from the first glance; but I have a duty to investigate thoroughly and without prejudice. Once I have gathered all of the evidence I will do everything in my power to eradicate the rot in the service. Hopefully you can see now why I’m so keen to get you involved. You see, at the moment I’m not sure exactly who I can trust—and you’re already so close to the case. How did you get to know this boy Phelps?’

‘Exactly as I told Quigg—I found him in an alleyway, the victim of a serious assault.’

‘And that’s your only connection?’

‘Absolutely—I give you my word.’

‘Well, it’s an amazing coincidence, Harley, but if you give me your word that’s good enough for me. Very well then—this is what I’m proposing: we re-open the case and investigate it as suspected murder. You are engaged by the Metropolitan Police as a special consultant, reporting directly to me. You investigate the case alongside a detective from this police station—’

‘Can’t do that.’

‘Good grief! Why ever not?’

‘Because there’s no one in this nick’s CID that I could trust. They’re all rotten as far as I’m concerned, all contaminated by the big rotten apple himself—Quigg.’

‘Well, we shall be hopefully dealing with that in due course, but in the meantime you can work with the new boy—DC Pearson.’

‘What—Quigg’s sidekick?’

‘Hardly that, dear boy. The lad’s only been posted here for a week—up from the West Country. No time for him to become “contaminated” as you call it.’

‘And I’d get paid?’

‘Of course—your usual professional rate.’

‘Plus expenses?’

‘Within reason.’

‘I don’t know—can I sleep on it?’

‘What’s there to think about? It’s what you wanted isn’t it? To have the boy’s death investigated as a murder?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Well, that’s the impression you gave to PC Burns.’

‘Why do I get the feeling I’m being played like a fiddle here, FW? Tell me straight—do I have a choice?’

‘There are always choices, Harley.’

‘Hmm … the last time you told me that I ended up at sea for a year. And I’d be leading the investigation?’

‘Not officially, of course, but in effect—yes.’

‘And what’s in this for you?’

‘Ooh—let’s just say I’m keen to make use of those unique skills again.’

‘Oh, I get it now—who better to feed you back little titbits from the street, eh? Well, if it helps clean up this cesspool, why not? But let’s get this straight—I won’t be putting the squeak in on any of my pals, alright?’

‘The squeak?’

‘Informing on my associates.’

‘Oh—I’m afraid I’ve got much bigger fish to fry, George.’

‘Alright—let’s shake on it. It’ll be a pleasure to see the likes of Quigg get his comeuppance.’

‘Indeed. But remember, George—with regard to the corruption, it’s
softly, softly, catchee monkey
.’

CHAPTER SIX

Sally Highstead forced open her gummed-up eyes and let them focus on the patch of mould on the ceiling. It took her a moment or two to realize that the thumping she could hear was coming from the door and not emanating from the hangover throbbing in her skull.

‘Sal?
Sal!
Open this ruddy door, won’t yer?’

Even in her befuddled state the promise of violence in Slater’s voice was enough to have Sally wrench herself out of bed. She noted with disappointment that she’d passed out in her uniform once again. Fighting the immediate wave of nausea, she stumbled through the soiled underclothes and scattered newspaper strewn across the floor and fumbled with the latch as Slater continued to thump out his frustration on the flimsy wooden panel.

‘Hurry up, won’t yer? You hiding someone in there?’

Sally finally managed to open the door to find Slater seething in the corridor, his suit and hat dripping wet and his left eye swollen above a raw graze on his cheekbone.

‘’Bout bleeding time an’ all! What d’you leave me standing out ’ere for, like a mug?’

Still a little stunned from her rude awakening Sally turned her bleary eyes to the window, only now becoming aware of the sound of the rain hammering on the grimy pane.

Just then the door at the end of the corridor creaked open an inch or two, revealing a face pressed up against the gap.

‘What you looking at? You nosey cowson!’ shouted Slater, taking a step towards the open door. ‘Hoping to get a glimpse of her undies, are yer? You dirty old sod!’

The door was slammed shut again.

‘
I’ll be reporting this to Mrs Cahill!
’ came the muffled reply.

Slater strode up to the door and clouted it with the toe of his shoe.

‘
Garn!
’

‘Please, Vern—don’t make a fuss!’ Sally forced a smile through her hangover. ‘Why don’t you come in and get out of those wet things, eh?’

Slater snorted contemptuously and stomped back up the corridor, pushing Sally into the bedsit ahead of him.

‘What time is it anyway?’ she asked, removing a plate, smeared with dried egg, from the wash basin. She pushed her head under the tap and drank greedily, her head spinning a little as she bent down.

‘Half-eleven,’ said Slater, removing his jacket and inspecting his eye in the mirror.

‘Ooh! Vern, love! How did that happen?’ asked Sally, changing out of her crumpled uniform and pulling on her bathrobe.

‘Got jumped in Poland Street—eyeties, three of the bastards. But I showed ’em what for, alright.’

‘Looks nasty. That’s gonna leave you with a smashing lamp if you don’t put something on it.’

‘What d’you suggest—
steak
?’ sneered Slater, sitting on the bed and taking off his collar.

Sally came and sat next to him, stroking his bruised eye.

‘My Nan always used to swear by a bit of dripping with pepper in it. D’you want me to go and see if Mrs Cahill has got any?’

‘Get out of it!’ Slater pushed her hand away. ‘I ain’t putting that muck on me boat … ’Ere—you got any of those fags left that you swiped from the club?’

‘I think there’s still a couple of packets under there.’

Slater bent down to look under the bed.

‘’Ere, what’s this then?’ His hand came out holding a crumpled letter. ‘Who’s been writing you letters, eh? You got some bloke on the go?’

‘Oh, don’t be daft, Vern! That’s from my brother Charlie. I’ve told you about him—don’t you remember? He’s in the Navy. Look here … the stamp’s all the way from Spain. He says he’s coming home on leave soon—it’s been ages since I seen ’im. We used to be so close when we were little. Hang on a mo’—I’ve got his picture here somewhere.’

‘Save yerself the bother! I’ve seen plenty of sailors in my time—usually arse-up in the gutter. Mind you, when Jolly Jack Tar does show up, make sure you arrange a little get-together—usually loaded on the first night ashore, ain’t they?’

Slater dropped the letter back on the floor.

‘Christ, you’re a slovenly mott! Look at the state of this place! Didn’t your mother teach you nuffin’ about keeping ’ouse?’

‘But it’s difficult, Vern—what with me working nights. I’m always so tired … by the time I’ve had a kip there’s no time for anything else before I have to get ready again for my next shift.’

‘And when did you last have a bath, girl? Blimey! You’ll be scaring the punters off.’

Sally pulled away from him and went to sit at the dressing table. She stared sulkily at her puffy face in the fly-blown mirror and then searched amongst the numerous bottles and pots.

‘Well, it’d be a lot easier if we had our own bathroom.’ She sprayed her cleavage with cheap scent from an atomizer. ‘What with having to get Lady Muck down there to fire up the boiler half an hour before you need hot water. I mean, if we had somewhere nicer to live …’ She began to work a dollop of cold cream under her eyes as she spoke. ‘Marlene—you know, who does the cloakroom at the club—well, she was saying that her bloke Terry has—’

‘Oh, cheese it! Won’t yer? You’re giving me an ’eadache. I’ve told you—the only way we can move into a better gaff is if you start pulling in a bit more gelt. It’s all very well soaking ’em for a few bob a time with the snide bubbly and with yer tips and all. But it’s time to up yer game, gel. There’s plenty of steamers to be had at the club—Christ! Paladino’s even got those rooms on the top floor fitted out for it. He’s an old pal, so we’d get a good rate.’

‘I told you, Vern—I ain’t doing it! I don’t mind dancing with ’em, I can even put up with ’em pawing me a bit—as long as I’ve had a drink. But I ain’t doing
that
.’

Slater walked over to Sally and thrust his hand down her front.

‘You do it with me, don’t yer?’ he growled in her ear.

‘But that’s different, Vern. I’m … I’m your girl, ain’t I?’

‘That’s right,’ he said, squeezing her breast and meeting her frightened eyes in the mirror. ‘You’re my girl, and you’ll do as I say!’ He modified his glare, offering her a brief smile. ‘Besides, I told yer—we won’t be here long. Once I clinch that big deal we’ll be living on velvet. Then you’ll get yer bathroom—in some big gaff up West. That’ll be us then—living the life of Reilly.’

‘That’d be summit—wouldn’t it, Vern?’

‘Yeah, yeah … ’course it would.’

‘Our own place, up West—that’d be nice alright … Ooh, Vern—pass me them fruit salts, my stomach’s killing me.’

‘You wanna eat summit once in a while, get some grub in yer kite rather than just booze.’

‘Why don’t you take me for breakfast then? We’ll go to that little cafe across the street. Come on, Vern—it’ll only take me five minutes to put me face on. It’s been ages since we done something on our own, just the two of us.’

‘Can’t—gotta see a man about a dog. I only come home for a fresh collar and some dough. You got any?’

‘I got a couple of nicker—but that’s got to last till the end of the month.’

‘Don’t give me that old madam! I bet you got a pile stashed away somewhere.’

‘I ain’t, Vern—honest I ain’t!’

‘Well, give me a oncer then; that’ll have to do.’

‘But that’s ’alf of it! What happened to the money you ’ad the other night?’

‘Never you mind what happened to it—that’s my business. Now come on—hand it over! You’re starting to rile me.’

With a sulky mouth Sally stooped and hoisted up her uniform jacket from the floor; she fumbled in the inside pocket for a moment and then counted out the coins into Slater’s outstretched hand.

‘You’d better hope the wind don’t change, gel—you’ll get stuck with that face.’

Slater went over to the chest of drawers for a fresh collar. ‘Listen, this bit of business shouldn’t take too long. Maybe I’ll bowl back afterwards and we could get a bite at the cafe like you said.’

‘Really, Vern? I’d like that!’

‘Yeah—why not? Now throw us another packet of smokes—I’ve got to be off.’

‘But that’s my last packet!’

‘Come on, don’t mess me around! This bloke’s the type that don’t take kindly to hanging around.’

‘Is it to do with the big deal?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, Sal—the big deal,’ he said, taking the cigarettes from her. ‘Right—I’ll catch you later.’

After Slater had left Sally crawled back into bed with a glass of Eno’s and a magazine. She studied her bitten nails for a while with the fizzing glass pushed against her hot forehead, then her gaze wandered back to the stain on the ceiling—it had always reminded her of the map of India in her old schoolroom. She emptied the glass with a little hiccup and then went over to the dressing table to rummage around in the drawer, finally locating two small photographs—one showing her with her brother Charlie as children, and the other one a portrait of Charlie in his Navy uniform.

She lay back down on the bed and began to sing a childhood favourite:

‘Oh, Oh, Antonio—he has gone away …’

***

An hour later Slater arrived at an out-of-the-way pub south of the river. Detective Inspector Quigg was already waiting in the saloon bar.

‘You’re late, Slater.’

‘Sorry, Mr. Quigg—I had trouble finding the place. A bit off the beaten track ain’t it?’

‘That’s the attraction.’

‘Yeah, yeah—course … Can I get you a drink?’

‘Soda water.’

‘You don’t want a proper wet?’

‘It’s twenty-to-one in the afternoon, Slater.’

‘Right-you-are, Mr. Quigg.’

Slater caught the eye of the barmaid who was polishing glasses at the end of the bar.

‘Yes please, love,’ he said, cocking his hat back and winking at her. ‘A soda and a Worthington’s.’

Hearing a familiar voice, the lone drinker in the adjacent public bar changed seats, moving to a stool nearer the etched glass partition so he could get a better look at the new arrival.

Benny Whelks was there by chance—over the water for a pickup from one of the Bermondsey crews; he’d just happened to catch a glimpse of DI Quigg from the top of a tram and following his street instinct he’d promptly jumped off to trail the bogey—knowing that if Quigg was this far outside his manor there might well be something of interest to report back to his boss—Mori the Hat. Now he couldn’t believe his luck: Vern Slater—a copper’s nark? Well, well, well … Benny allowed an uncharacteristic smile to break out on his pasty face. Now, with the pub nice and quiet, if he just slipped into the saloon bar …

Quigg led Slater to one of the small booths in the dark interior of the pub. Before sitting he pulled a finger across the tabletop and inspected it, vigorously dusted down the bench seat, and then took his place at the table. Slater pulled up a small stool and slurped greedily at his beer.

‘Who’s calling card is that?’ said Quigg, pointing at the wide-boy’s black eye.

‘What, this? It’s nuffin—just a set-to with a mob of ginneys. Me and the boys gave ’em what for alright.’

‘You and the boys, eh? Intriguing. And which boys might that be? I was under the impression you worked alone.’

‘Rather not discuss it, Mr. Quigg; you know—
mum’s the word
, an’ all that.’

‘Hmm … So, Slater—do you have anything for me?’

Slater took another pull on his beer, then—a little sheepishly—dropped a small pile of coins on the table.

‘And the rest?’

Wiping the froth from his upper lip on the back of his sleeve, the wide-boy thought for a moment, then reached into his jacket and placed a packet of cigarettes next to the money.

‘Not my brand I’m afraid.’

‘It’s all I can stretch to this month, Mr. Quigg.’

‘Oh dear—then we do have a problem.’

‘Awr, come on Mr. Quigg, cut me a bit of slack, won’t yer? Things are a bit tight at the moment.’

‘Spare me the sob story, Vernon.’

‘Honest! That’s all I got.’

‘What’s the matter—that new doxy of yours not paying her way?’

‘Doxy, Mr. Quigg?’

‘The latest slattern to provide you with your immoral earnings. Your
jane
, your
brass
, your
mott
, your
pooter
—to quote the common parlance.’ Quigg, pulled a notebook from his pocket. ‘A
Miss Sally Highstead
, I believe.’

At the mention of Sally’s name, Benny Whelks—who had just slipped into the saloon bar unnoticed—darted quietly into a booth, close enough to follow the conversation.

‘Sal? Well, yeah, as it happens—she has been a bit slow on the uptake. But don’t worry, Mr. Quigg—we’ll have her on the bash good and proper in no time.’

‘Oh,
I’m
not worried, Slater—but then, of course, I’m not the one who has reneged on our little contract.’

‘Look, there’ll be the full whack next month, I promise. And I’ll make up what’s missing ’n all.’

‘No … I’ve another idea, Vernon. What say we forget about what’s missing here? And instead, you do me a little favour. You never know—if you perform this little task satisfactorily you may even get into my good books again.’

Looking a little worried, Slater took another swig of beer.

‘Do I have a choice, Mr. Quigg?’

‘Of course you don’t, Vernon.’

‘Thought as much … What do I have to do?’

‘Well, first of all I need a little information. What have you heard of George Harley recently?’

‘That berk? Funnily enough he was in Alberto’s yesterday. But, course, you already know that. I watched him get lumbered by your boys—funniest thing I’ve seen in ages. Don’t tend to see too much of ’im nowadays, and I ain’t complaining about that neither—thinks he’s summit special, that one.’

‘What about his associates—anyone that might be known to me?’

‘Well, he used to knock about with that big Jew-boy middleweight, Solly Rosen—Solly the Smoke. Been mates since they were kids. But I don’t think they’re so close now.’

‘Rosen?
The Yiddish Thunderbolt
, wasn’t it? Isn’t he muscle for Mori Adler now? Solly Rosen—yes, I heard he was present at a little altercation at Epsom races a couple of weeks back. Could I use him to link Harley with Adler’s crew?’

Now hearing his boss’s name mentioned Whelks moved to the edge of his seat, straining to hear every word.

‘I wouldn’t know about that Mr. Quigg.’