Truth Dare Kill (24 page)

It was a coincidence. And Kate and her brother had thought to use the two events to fool me. If – as happened – I went checking hospitals, they were counting on putting the discrepancy in the dates down to a simple clerical error.

But it was the second sheet that gripped me. It was the write-up by the good Doctor Cunningham – who even now would be harassing the phone operator to get through to the non-existent Doctor Ferguson. Or maybe he was beyond that stage and was ranting at the poor receptionist for being duped. I felt bad about that.

The note was brief but unequivocal :

The patient was admitted with severe internal injuries causing bleeding from the vagina. Inspection showed damage to the lining of the womb consistent with a termination. Scarring has become infected and ruptured. Bleeding was staunched and area disinfected. Prognosis: patient was advised that damage to womb is extensive. Further surgery may be necessary (D&C or full hysterectomy) to ensure seat of infection removed. Review in 1 month.

Poor Kate. I read and re-read the note and handed it to Mary. She donned a little pince-nez and squinted at the page.

“No more babies, now. Right?”

“You read English very well, Mary. All those newspapers of yours. What I don’t understand is why she went to the hospital? Wouldn’t she go back to where she had the abortion?”

Mary was shaking her head. “Abortion not legal. Risky business. But if you got problems after, you can go real hospital and get fixed. I seen it. Happen all time here.”

“But why would a woman like Kate Graveney go to a back-street abortionist, Mary?

People like that have access to private clinics. They can pay for the best.”

“Depend who father is.” She gave me a knowing look.

I was slow at times. She must have got pregnant by Tony. Her half-brother Tony.

No wonder she wanted to keep it quiet. But Liza told me that Kate didn’t know Tony was related to her. Had she found out? Either way, the Graveney family physician probably wasn’t the type to put his gilded stethoscope on the block for something like this.

“But surely you don’t have to track down an old woman with a rusty knitting needle. There must be some trained folk that are prepared to do this?”

“Sure. Halley Street!”

“Harley Street? But they’re not back-street butchers.”

“But need middleman to get right man. Right man like little money on side.” She rubbed her fingertips together. “We use all time. Halley Street just round corner. That’s why girls in trouble come Soho.”

It was true. I could walk to the centre of the best private medical system in the country in ten minutes. “Are you saying that Kate Graveney might have come to Soho to find someone to do this?”

“Sure, Danny. We got lots of middleman. We got everything here,” she giggled.

There was a certain irony in that. No wonder the church wanted Soho razed to the ground and salted. I felt I had to follow this lead through, find out if Kate did pass through here, and if so, where she went next. It wasn’t clear why it seemed important; it just did. It didn’t begin to explain why Caldwell might have murdered several women, but it was the only thread I had. I had to reel it in. As to how to follow Kate’s tracks, I had an idea, but it was a long shot.

“Mary, if I had a photo of Kate Graveney, would you be able to take it around Soho? See if anyone recognised her?”

“Cost you money, Danny. Not for me. People want money for information. That’s how Soho work.”

“Mary, will you help me a little more? I’ve got a bank book and a photo of Kate in my office. I daren’t go there, but maybe one of the girls?”

“This make big fat bastard unhappy?”

“Pig sick, Mary, with any luck.”

“Then, shoo thing, Danny!”

Colette grumbled about losing her siesta but I promised her ten bob if she could get hold of my savings book – assuming the coppers hadn’t cleared out my whole flat and office. I told her to look out for a skinny girl with long hair, and if she saw a cat and it looked hungry, there was a can of Carnation in a cupboard.

She returned triumphant three hours later, waving my pass book and Kate’s file with the photo in it. There was no sign of Valerie. Or a note. Or anything untoward. Colette said if the place had been ransacked, they’d put it all back together very neatly. She’d seen nothing except a very peeved cat, who’d gone daft at the sound of the can of milk being punctured.

Valerie, Valerie, where are you? If only you’d given me an address.

I sneaked out – wearing the glasses again – to my Westminster branch at Elephant and Castle. I didn’t breathe much during the transaction in case a stop had been placed on my account or a note left to call the police if I showed. I tried not to grab the fifty pounds in fives and ones as the girl counted it out twice in front of me.

I hopped on a bus going back up to Piccadilly with a light heart and an even lighter bank book. But I swear the weather had turned while I was inside the bank. There was a lightness in the air, a sense of change, a feeling of hope. Or maybe it just felt good to have money in my pocket and a game plan unfolding.

When I’m stuck or trapped and can’t see my way forward, I fret and droop. When I’m on the move with an objective and a plan, cares fall away. Even if I’m heading in the wrong direction, it’s better than standing still waiting for life to turn out right for you. It doesn’t.

I was almost whistling when I got back to Mary’s but I wasn’t so carefree that I didn’t zigzag my way to Rupert Street taking sharp turns and crossing roads whenever I saw a blue uniform. I carefully recce’d the street before approaching her door. I couldn’t spot anyone hanging around looking as if they weren’t looking. In I went. I paid Colette and she hinted I might get one for free if I asked nicely and Mary wasn’t counting. That would have been stupid; Mary was being kindness herself, and she was always counting. Besides, I was feeling part of the family now, not a customer.

I showed Mary the photo.

She whistled. “She pretty girl. Any time she want work, I get her plenty customer.”

I enjoyed the thought. “I don’t think that’s her style.”

“All women the same. Only price different,” she said, as if it were a universal truth.

“What happens now, Mary?”

“I take photo big timers round here. You go any bar and ask who top men are.

They tell you Maggie Tait, Jonny Crane

”

Crane? That rang a bell. “Who did you just say?”

“Jonny Crane?”

“You’ve mentioned him before?”

“He got lot of businesses here.” She tapped the bridge of her flat nose. “Drugs, money, contacts, girls.”

Girls. Now I had it. “It was his girls got murdered, wasn’t it?”

Mary nodded, her eyes searching my face.

“This is getting interesting, Mary. Very interesting.”

Threads spinning and twisting together. Gather enough threads together and you have a tapestry.

TWENTY TWO

It may be some men’s idea of heaven to live in a whorehouse, but if you’re a non-participant and all you can do is listen to the radio or do some handiwork around the place, it gets wearying. The perfume clings, making it difficult to venture out in case you got mistaken for a nancy boy. The hunt for me was still on but the initial frenzy had gone out of it. It was only once mentioned on the news; I just hoped my mother wasn’t listening. Occasionally I’d hear the clamour of the cars of the Flying Squad and wonder if they were heading this way. Police patrols had doubled according to Mary, and certainly there were more uniforms on the streets than I could recall. All bad for business said Mary.

So when the call – summons more like – came through to meet Jonny Crane I was on my way like a greyhound out his trap. But Mary’s advice rang in my ears.

“Jonny nasty piece. You keep back to wall and hand here.” She grabbed her crotch. “And no mention you was bobby!”

I mulled over the image of a girlie gangster as I started down the steep flight of stairs to one of Jonny’s hangouts in Wardour Street. I gave my name through the hatch and it was clear they were expecting me. The door was opened by a gorilla in a midget’s suit. He had mean eyes, maybe from having his nose broken so often. He pushed my face against the wall and smoothed his great mitts over me and grunted – with disappointment I think – at finding no weapons on me.

It had been getting dark outside, but it was darker down here until we came to another door. The gorilla pushed me ahead of him and I stumbled into a wide, well-lit drinking den. It was too early for customers but a barman ground away at a glass with a dish towel, clearly not worried if I had a drink or a coronary.

At a table on the left sat two men: one young and chewing gum and sitting back on two legs of a chair which could go over any minute; the other small, with glasses, his chin resting on clasped hands. He could be the young guy’s accountant. On the table in front of them – breaking the barman’s heart – were tea cups and a pot. A photo and an ashtray with a cigarette-holder lay between them. I walked over. The gorilla stuck to my tail. What did he think I’d do?

Chuck tea over them?

The young guy wore kohl round his eyes and his lips were red and wet. He shifted his gum to one side of his mouth and spoke. His voice was high and piping. I didn’t laugh.

“Mr Crane wants to know who you are and why you’re asking about this doll.”

Doll? Where did this jessie think he was, Chicago? “Can’t Mr Crane ask me himself?”

The accountant eased back and sat upright. Now I could see the heavy rings on both hands. He was much older than I first thought; his lined face was filled in with powder and rouge. His eyes bulged behind his glasses as he sized me up, maybe wondering how much concrete it would take round my feet to sink me.

“I’m asking. Who are you and why are you sending the word out on this bint?” His voice had all the depth and weight that his pretty friend lacked. He sounded like a sixty-a-day Capstan Full Strength man.

I’d thought about how to answer this if the time came. Suddenly I didn’t feel so confident about my story. But it was too late now. “I’m David Campbell. I’m a private detective. Hired by her husband. He’s been getting curious about how she spends her time.”

“You’re a Jock,” said Crane.

“That a crime?”

“Not necessarily.” The implication was that it depended which side of the bed he’d got out of that day. And who with. I hoped today was a love-your-fellow-man day regardless of predilection.

“Have you seen the lady?” I asked.

“Lady, is it? Sit down,” said Crane sucking on his cigarette then stubbing it out. He handed the holder to the boy, who refilled it, lit it and handed it back to him.

I sat. The boy rocked forward on to four legs and the gorilla scraped a chair up behind me. Now we were all cosy. Would they offer me tea?

I asked my question again.

“Depends,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows.

“On what you’re going to do with the information.”

“Do you care?” I asked.

His lengthened lashes blinked behind the glasses. “Let’s say, if I knew this bint, and if I’d done something for her, that would make her a customer of mine.

I look after my customers. If they look after me.” He sounded less like an accountant and more like a priest: one of the hard-boiled variety who taught the boys Latin and buggery.

“It’s not my business what my clients do with the information I provide,” I replied.

“I like that. I like compartments. Keeps things simple. In a complicated world, know what I mean?”

I shrugged. Spare me from amateur philosophers. “Mr Crane, this isn’t essential information to my enquiry. Just corroboration. I have enough to make my report, but this would

help. So I’m prepared to pay a fiver for answers to some simple questions.”

Crane turned to his companion and laughed. The boy broke into a high piping giggle. The gorilla spluttered behind me. Crane turned back to me.

“Campbell, I spend five quid on a round here. Is that all you’ve got?”

“It’s all it’s worth.” I could feel the sweat breaking out in the small of my back. I hoped it wasn’t showing on my forehead.

Crane sobered up. “I was forgetting; you’re Scotch.” His eyelids closed slowly for a moment as he thought; it was like a reptile blinking. He refocused. “Make it twenty and I’ll give you some answers.”

Twenty was a fortnight’s wages. “Ten is the limit.”

He shrugged. I reached in to my pocket, pulled out my little wad and counted out ten ones on Crane’s table. He reached to take them and I slapped my hand down on the money. The boy was on his feet in a second, a knife glinting in his hand.

Behind me the chair grated on the floor and I steeled myself for the blow.

“Easy, Sammy.” Crane’s command brought the boy to heel. He waved at the gorilla behind me and I felt the heavy breathing recede.

“You get three questions. Make ’em count,” said Crane.

I thought for a minute. “OK. Did you help the lady in that photo?” I pointed at the table.

“Yes. One.”

Shit. I already knew he did. Think harder. “What sort of help did you give her?”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “I gave her some contacts. Two.”

The bastard was playing with me. He was smiling. So was pretty boy. I wanted to hit him. I took a gamble.

“Did she come to you for an abortion?”

He looked at me for long second. “No. Three.” He reached out and took the money.

“We’re done. Now bugger off back to Glasgow, Campbell, or whatever your name is.”

Sod. If you could believe a grade one crook like Crane, my theory was out the window. I got up to go but couldn’t resist a shot in the dark, “Sorry about your girls, Jonny.”

The room went still. Even the barman stopped rubbing his glass. “What do you know about my girls, Jock?” he growled.

“Word on the street. Seems the Ripper was picking on you.”

“Is that so, Mister private dick? Is that so? S’none of your fuckin’ business, all right?”

“No offence, Jonny. I was just wondering if you’d been grilled by the lovely Inspector Wilson, that’s all.”

“Sit.”