‘You missed something out,’ said George. ‘We might not be able to hurt you, old man, but if we turn you over it will get right up Bimbo’s nose. Cos he’ll know it was his fault. So I don’t really give two tosses for your cancer.You can die when you like for all I piggin’ care. But you don’t want Bimbo hurt, do ya?’
‘You are very intuitive, young man … George. And quite correct. You will go far in your chosen profession. Once upon a time I could have used a man like you. In fact I did.’
‘Yeah, well thanks for the compliment, but I don’t think we’re gettin’ anywhere. Gary, start breaking up the place.’
‘That would not be wise,’ said Stepney, lifting the pistol from its hiding place beneath the desk, the black eye of the barrel staring at George. ‘This is a Walther P38. It is in good working order. Now you are an intelligent boy. I think you will understand what I am going to say to you. Since I am dying I have nothing to lose. On the other hand, you are young with everything to lose. Am I going too fast for your fat friend? No. Good. Should you, or any of your comrades, visit me again, I shall kill them. Verstehen? You will go back to Reardon and you will give him this message. You will tell him that he is no more to me than a maggot, and, in my time I have forced better men than him to my boots.’
‘You think I’m gonna say that to Reardon? You must be out of your mind.’
‘Not at all. But you will repeat it to your friends. Or Gary will. The result is the same. People will know I have contempt for your boss.’
‘It probably aint loaded,’ said Gary, half rising.
‘You are probably right,’ said Heinrich Stolz, with a death’s head grin.
‘It’s loaded!’ snapped George. ‘Sit down and stay cool.’
‘As I said, you are an intelligent boy. You just missed your era.’
‘Well, what a surprise,’ said George, rising slowly and backing towards the door.
‘We … Yids … are a surprising people,’ said Stepney.
Sue Cater closed her notebook. The police incident book showed three burglaries, a bag snatch and a car fire for Friday, which would make only a few paragraphs for the News Briefs column. But with two page leads needed the news editor, Bateman, was not going to be too impressed. She thanked the station officer and re-checked her notebook. Maybe one of the burglaries would yield a good human interest story – widow’s life savings stolen. But she doubted it. All the burglaries had taken place in the rich quarter, the plush east end of the borough.
Anyway, what are you sweating for, Cater? she asked herself. There were stories, if only the paper would have the balls to follow them up. Protection rackets, bent coppers, evil landlords. But Bateman kept pointing out that with the staff now mainly made up of junior reporters it would be dangerous to attempt any exposés.
She saw Don Dodds walking towards his car and ran down to intercept him. He turned at the sound of running footsteps and smiled as he recognised the youngster.
‘What’s the rush? No Great Train Robberies today, are there?’
‘I thought you might buy me a coffee.’
‘I’m not sure Edna would appreciate my being seen with a gorgeous young reporter. Come to think of it, neither would the Super.’
‘But you’re retiring at Christmas, more’s the pity. Go out with a fling.’
He grinned once more and climbed into the white Escort. ‘I’ll see you at Mia’s. But only twenty minutes, mind. And no talking shop. Still want to come?’
She nodded and ran for her car, a dark blue Escort. She beat the sergeant to the coffee shop by three minutes and was already sitting at a corner table with two cups of black coffee before her when he arrived. He removed his hat and sat opposite her.
‘One of these days, young lady, you are going to be stopped for speeding. And booked.’ But he knew it was unlikely. Sue Cater was pretty and blonde, with large, innocent eyes. Few men would be able to pluck up the courage to write the ticket.
‘I want to pick your brains, Don.’
‘I said no talking shop.’
‘Not current cases. Just general info about the area. And it’s off the record. No notebook. No quotes. Scout’s honour.’
‘There was a time, young lady, when that meant something. Reporters had a certain code. I don’t believe it works any more. Too many lies and half-truths get in the papers.’
‘Not from me.’
‘I accept that. It’s why I’m here. So ask – but I might not answer.’
‘John Jardine.’
‘Bimbo? What about him?’
‘Is it true he’s going to end up in hospital?’
‘Who told you this?’
‘It’s all over town. In the bars, anyway. Is it true?’
‘What’s your interest?’ he asked, sipping his coffee.
‘He rescued an old lady. And I saw Liz Owlett the other day – you know, the council officer trying to help the refuge – and she said he’s trying to fix up a mate for the black swan in the park.’
‘So?’
‘Well, he seems like a nice man.’
Dodds smiled. ‘It’s a relative term. You’re a big girl, Miss Cater, and you know there are two worlds out there. There’s the nine-to-five clerk who gets on the bus, goes to work, comes home, reads the paper, watches TV and goes to bed. The following day he starts all over again. He’s your average punter. He thinks we live in a civilised world with laws to protect him and his wife and children. Then there’s the real world. And Bimbo lives there.’
‘But the punter is right,’ said Sue. ‘There are laws to protect him?’
‘Not really. The law is there to punish. That means anyone is free to attack this clerk and his family. Nothing is going to stop it happening. But we try to make sure the villains are put away. The theory is that prison sentences deter other offenders. But we lost the way. Prison is not much of a deterrent. A man can admit thirty burglaries and get six months inside. Thirty burglaries can affect the lives of maybe a hundred people. And the fear never goes away. Do you know I went on a course once where a psychiatrist told me more women have breakdowns over burglaries than over rapes? Did you know that? It seems that the violation is greater when it’s the home that is invaded.’
‘And Bimbo’s world?’ she nudged.
‘Survival of the fittest. Law of the jungle.’
‘Run by men like Frank Reardon.’
‘No names, young Sue. This is background, remember. Bimbo’s world is dog eat dog. It’s about muscle and fear. And he’s lived in that world all his life.’
‘As a leg breaker.’
‘As a collector,’ corrected Dodds. ‘But, yes, he’s cracked a few skulls. I don’t want to defend Bimbo. I’ve put him away twice. But he’s not a villain. Most people who know him like him. He helps out. Like that woman he took to hospital. And another girl he helped wean off drugs. It’s a funny old world. If I was in trouble I’d want my bank manager standing by me – even though he is a pompous little sod, if you’ll pardon my French. But if I was in a tight spot, with people out to break my bones, I’d want Bimbo close by. I can’t really put it too much clearer.’
‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘Well, I wasn’t trying to hide it. Yes, I like him. Old fashioned, is Bimbo. Mrs Thatcher would like him. He’s full of Victorian values.’
‘One leg breaker recognising another,’ said Sue, grinning. ‘Anyway, how did Bimbo get in this mess?’
‘He helped a friend.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I didn’t suppose that you would.’
‘The word is they are going to cripple him.’
He nodded, and finished his coffee. Sue shook her head. ‘But if the police know this, why don’t they stop it?’
‘Stop what? When I interview Bimbo in hospital he’ll say he fell down the stairs. Even if hi
s back’s broken and he’ll never walk again. You understand that? That’s the law in his jungle.’
‘But if he’s no threat to them, why cripple him?’
Dodds replaced the empty cup and called for a refill, which was supplied by a portly, middle-aged Italian woman. When she had gone he leaned forward.
‘It’s about credibility. Bimbo’s boss makes his money from other people’s fear. People pay him so that they don’t end up in hospital. He thinks Bimbo made him look a fool. Now he knows people are watching to see what happens to Bimbo. If he’s seen to get away with it those people will – maybe – cease to fear the boss.’
‘So what will happen?’ she asked.
Dodds shrugged. ‘If Bimbo has an ounce of sense he’ll take a beating and get on with his life.’
‘And has he? An ounce of sense?’
‘Good question.’
‘So answer it.’
‘He’ll force them to cripple him. He’ll suffer.’
‘Why? Where’s the point?’
‘Ah well, that’s something your generation wouldn’t understand, young Sue.’
‘Try me.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not worth it. Believe me.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because you asked the question. If you were capable of understanding the reason, you wouldn’t have needed to ask. And your twenty minutes are up.’
‘Oh come on, Don,’ she said, as he picked up his hat and stood, ‘you can’t leave it like that.’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ he said. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
She paid the bill and returned to the office, wrote up her News Briefs and completed a short feature on hang gliding. After checking the desk diary for any late entries she left the building and drove to Maple Road. For some time she sat in the car, too nervous to enter the building. She’d certainly made a bad impression the last time, and reddened as she remembered her maladroit handling of the big man. Would he give her a second chance? She checked her face in the rear view mirror. Her looks gave her confidence and she locked the car and entered the building.
She climbed the stairs, wary of the bulging, threadbare carpet, and turned into the corridor. She stopped in her tracks. A dead cat was nailed to Bimbo’s door, blood leaking from its open mouth. She turned and fled, cannoning into Bimbo on the stairs.
‘Steady on,’ he said, catching her by the arms. She looked up and the warmth disappeared from his eyes.
‘Oh it’s you.’
‘Someone’s left … left … a cat. A dead cat. Nailed to … your door.’
Bimbo released her and walked slowly to his flat.
She waited on the stairs until she heard the flap of the rubbish chute slam down. Taking a deep breath, she returned to his door. Blood still stained the old rush mat. She tapped on the door.
‘Come in,’ he said, from the kitchen. ‘Kettle’s on.’
The first thing she noticed was the Winnie the Pooh poster. She sat before the gas fire staring at the cartoon. ‘There you go,’ he said, handing her a mug of tea. He switched on the fire and pulled up a chair. He was dressed in a faded blue track suit, torn at the shoulder, and he smelt of sweat, not stale and acrid, but fresh and primal. She felt inhibited by the smell, and strangely disconcerted.
‘I’m sorry about the cat,’ he said. ‘Not nice for a woman to see.’
‘Not nice for anyone to see. Why was it done?’
‘Dunno,’ he said, avoiding her eyes. ‘Prank, I s’pose.’
‘Has there been much of this recently?’
‘Drink your tea, love. It’ll make you feel better.’
‘It’s a nice poster. I used to love Winnie the Pooh.’
‘Yeah.’ He seemed ill at ease, and she didn’t need great intuition to sense his distrust of her. The tea was hot and too sweet. Sue had given up sugar two years before and now felt as if she was holding a can of heated syrup. Standing, she moved through to the kitchen and tipped the tea down the sink. There was enough water in the kettle for a fresh cup, and she spotted a small jar of coffee on a crowded shelf. The movement through Bimbo’s flat made her feel more confident. It was all in Don’s book about body language and human behavioural patterns. Take control!
Returning to the fire she sat once more, this time facing Bimbo. ‘Look, I’m sorry about last time. Can’t we start over?’
‘We aint got nothin’ to start.’ His response was not overtly hostile, and her mind worked furiously at the problem. What was it everyone said about Bimbo? Soft touch for someone in trouble?
‘I need your help.’
‘Yeah? Want me to kill somebody, or maybe eat a few babies?’ As he spoke he smiled, but there was more sorrow than anger in his eyes. Sue changed tack again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘What do you want me to say? I didn’t know you. What else did I have to go on, except a few old court cases and a reputation?’
‘You said you wanted ’elp. What kind of ’elp?’ asked Bimbo, his eyes still wary.
‘I’ve got an exam coming up, it’s called the Proficiency Certificate. I’ve got to do a project for it. It’s like a degree journalists have to do before they become seniors – you know, fully-fledged reporters. At the moment I’m a junior. Anyway, I’m doing this project on crime, and I wanted some advice. I spoke to Don Dodds and he suggested talking to you.’
‘I aint no criminal.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ she said swiftly, feeling her way into the interview, watching his every reaction. ‘Don talks about there being two worlds, the cosy nine to five, and the real world. He says you live in that real world. I just want some advice. I won’t quote you. No names. It’s a general piece. Not even about this area.’
‘What do you want to hear?’ asked Bimbo. ‘I’m just an odd job man. I don’t know nothin’ about gangsters.’
‘I’m not talking about the Mafia. Just local crime. Protection rackets, extortion, prostitution. Look … I’ll ask you some questions, and any you don’t know – or don’t want to talk about – you ignore. How’s that? It would really help me. If l fail this exam I’ll be fired,’ she lied.
‘You can ask,’ he said.
Be careful now, Sue …
‘Okay, let’s take protection rackets – generally. Do you see them as evil?’
‘I aint sure what you mean.’
‘By protection rackets?’
‘Course not. Evil.’
‘You don’t know what evil means?’ she asked.
‘Course I do. I aint much of a talker, Miss … Cater innit? … But, like you can get some right evil bastards involved in anything, can’t ya? Banking, politics. Like that Hitler bloke. And there’s some right nasty types in the Old Bill.’
‘So you don’t see the rackets themselves as evil … immoral?’
‘They probably are,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s the way the world works. Aint nothin’ gonna change that.’
‘It’s not the way my world works.’
‘Course it is. How much you earn?’
‘Just over £9,000 a year.’
‘Take it all home, do ya?’
‘No, there’s tax and stoppages.’
‘Thass what I’m saying. The Government says, “Give us thirty per cent of what you earn or we’ll bang you up.” You aint got no choice. Like old Al Capone. They couldn’t get him for running his rackets so they banged him up for not payin’ for theirs. Income tax invasion or summink. Nice touch eh?’
Sue stifled a smile. ‘But that money goes towards hospitals and schools and roads and pensions,’ she said.
‘Yeah, I know. And bombs and planes, and payoffs and freebies. What I’m sayin’ is nobody gets a choice. You pay ’cos you have to. Because they’re bigger than you, and stronger. It’s the same around here. Same anywhere.’
‘But does that make protection rackets morally justified?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think about it much. In fact, I don’t think about it at all. It just is, innit?’
‘Okay,’ she said, sensing him pulling away. ‘How does one go about setting up a protection racket, and why don’t the police close it down? Isn’t that what they’re there for?’
‘What do you wanna know first?’
‘Sorry. Setting it up.’
‘Piece a cake. Pubs, clubs, restaurants all need a quiet life. Nobody’s gonna take his wife to a place where there’s trouble, right? So you cause a bit of trouble. Fight or summink.’ He stood and walked to the kitchen, returning with a fresh mug of tea.
‘So why doesn’t the proprietor go to the police?’
‘I aint tellin’ this right. Look, that’s not the way it works. See, the first thing that happens is someone approaches the publican, and points out that it’s a rough area. He tells the publican he’s operating a security business that watches out for trouble and nips it in the bud. Nothing illegal about that. Let’s say the publican tells him to naff off. The guy just goes. No trouble. No threats. The following night two men in the pub have a row and a fight breaks out. Smashed chairs, broken bottles, bit a blood on the carpet. Following day the original geezer is back. “Dear, dear,’’ he says. “Hear you ’ad a bit of trouble.” The publican wises up, and pays. He can always put it down to breakages. They’ve all got their own fiddles. And no one could ever prove the fight weren’t … weren’t …’
‘Spontaneous?’ she offered.
‘Yeah.’
‘But surely the police know how this works?’
‘Course they do.’
‘Then they should be able to stop it.’
‘Well there’s the second problem, innit. The publican – poor bugger – has got to work out if the local bobbies are bent. I mean, if he complains and the copper is on the payroll, then word will get back that he’s about to grass ’em up. He could be badly hurt for that. And, at best, his business will get wrecked. Fights every night. All the customers goin’ elsewhere for a quiet life. He’d be out of business in a month.’
White Knight/Black Swan Page 13
