‘I know who your husband is, Mrs Reardon. I know what he does. But it’s what he is doing to you that frightens me.’
Jean Reardon nodded. ‘He wasn’t always like this. He was charming, and thoughtful. He once surprised me with a second honeymoon trip to the Bahamas. It was the most beautiful time. But he’s changed.’
‘Changed?’ said Pam. ‘He has just seen you abused in the most terrible fashion. And he’ll do it again. Maybe next time it will be two of his thugs, or all of them. Do you want to go through that again?’
‘No,’ she said, softly. ‘But I haven’t a lot of choice. I left him the last time and went to a friend’s house near Leeds. Two men brought me home. He was fine for a while, then he turned. Things haven’t been going well with him.’
‘I still think we should call the police,’ said Pam.
‘No!’ Terror shone in Jean Reardon’s eyes. ‘I’ll deny it all.’
‘Then why did you come here?’
‘I just wanted to talk. You know? I just … God, I wish I had the courage to kill him.’
‘That would be one answer,’ agreed Pam. ‘Look, I have a friend in Somerset. She has a farm. I’m sure she would put you up while you think this through. Why not give it a try? Do you have a cheque book?’
‘No,’ said Jean Reardon. ‘He took it away and closed my account.’
‘Barclaycard?’
‘American Express. Gold card,’ she said.
‘Okay,’ said Pam. ‘I want you to go and buy the most expensive piece of jewellery, and then sell it. Take the money and come back here. Then we’ll get you to Somerset.’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t.’
‘Then trust me.’
The door opened and two men walked in. Pam stood. ‘What the hell?’
‘Come on, Mrs Reardon, we’ll take you home,’ said the first, a tall, broad-shouldered Irishman with dark curly hair.
‘Get out,’ ordered Pam, ‘or I’ll call the police.’
‘You aint bad lookin’ for a dyke,’ said the man. ‘You know what you need, don’t ya?’
Pam’s fist cracked into his face. He backhanded her into the wall.
‘Stop it!’ screamed Jean Reardon, standing. The man backed away from the stunned Pam. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Reardon. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
Gathering up her bag she left the room. The Irishman grinned at Pam.
‘That’s not a bad punch you got there,’ he said. ‘I like a woman with a bit of spirit. I may see you again. Yeah. I think you’d like that.’
As the door closed behind them Pam sank into her chair.
Marie, one of her helpers, rushed in.
‘I couldn’t stop them, Pam. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Should I call the police?’
‘No. You’d find there were no witnesses. You know, for the first time in my life I wish I’d had a gun. I’d have blown that bastard away without a second’s hesitation.’
‘Just as well you didn’t then,’ said Marie. ‘It wouldn’t have solved anything.’
‘True,’ she said. ‘But it’s a nice fantasy.’
10
Frank Reardon downed his scotch and placed the lead crystal tumbler on the circular table that surrounded the centre-piece log fire. MacLeeland sat in discomfort on the Regency chair nursing a tonic water. The lounge in Reardon’s home was forty feet long and furnished with impeccable taste. It didn’t suit the man who owned it, Mac realised, but then Jean had chosen the furniture and the trappings.
‘How could he be so bloody stupid?’ raged Reardon. ‘Topping him, for God’s sake.’
‘I don’t know, Mr Reardon,’ said Mac, realising it would be unwise to remind the man that he had been warned on several occasions that Green was more than a little unhinged.
Reardon picked up the single sheet of paper supplied by Detective Inspector Eric Lynch. ‘He plants a bloodstained top in a bag, and he doesn’t think about trousers, shoes, towels, and all the other vital ingredients. Just as well he’s in piggin’ Tenerife!’
‘It doesn’t look good, Mr Reardon.’
‘Damned right about that, Mac. Jesus! Why didn’t he go the whole way? He could have had a bath in Bimbo’s flat. Left some blood on a towel. And then to threaten the Wilks woman. God, if she’d just admitted he was with her the whole business would have looked like a set up alibi. But no! He’s got brains of shit.’
‘It did look like Reilly double-crossed you.’
‘Bullshit! He knew he’d get nothing if he torched the place. We talked about it. You think he set out to bankrupt himself? No. I’ll tell you why Jackie Green killed Reilly, it was because the man pulled a gun on him and called him a mad dog. Reilly rang me the same day.’
‘You should get rid of him,’ said Mac.
Reardon looked away, and Mac realised it was all too late.
‘Now what about Bimbo?’ asked Reardon. Mac sighed.
‘That’s not good for you either, Frank.’
Reardon grinned, and poured himself another Scotch. ‘You’re right, Mac. I should have listened to you. I’m not too big to admit I made a mistake. But it’s gone too far. Bimbo’s out there making me look a prize prick every time he walks out on the street. He’s got to be seen to. And it’s too late now for a broken nose and a few bruises. He’s got to be in traction. Or dead.’
‘Dead?’ said Mac. ‘What are we doing? There’s one man dead already.’
‘How many men will be with Taggart tonight?’
‘About a dozen.’
‘And they all know Bimbo,’ said Reardon, ‘so most of them will be carrying pickaxe handles, or hammers. You can’t get away from it, Mac. There’s a chance they could kill him.’
‘It’s got to be stopped, Frank. It’s going to destroy you.’
‘Too late to worry about that. I hear Jack Shell’s making noises again about not paying. If that happens, how long before the other publicans and club owners start following suit? No. The cards are dealt. Now we play the hands.’
‘You know what Lynch said, Frank. The Filth are just waiting for you to do something, stupid.’
‘After Bimbo’s sorted things will calm down. Then we’ll get back to business as usual.’
‘And if he dies tonight?’
‘It’s a hard life,’ said Reardon. ‘We’ll send flowers.’
Bimbo wandered disconsolately around Stepney’s flat, gazing with new eyes upon the possessions he had seen so many times before: Dresden plates, small Japanese figures in carved ivory, ornamental daggers, and a silver tankard inscribed in German. Stepney had said they were all of sentimental value. But not any more. Now they were just dead objects, like the man who had loved them.
Bimbo sat down in the chair opposite the chessboard and carefully put all the pieces into place. On the table beside the board was an envelope. Bimbo picked it up and read his own name. It was hand-written in shaky script. He opened the letter. It was typed.
My dear friend,
You read this because I am now gone to whatever purgatory the wise Lord has consigned me to. I know you will feel some sadness at my passing, and, in a way that is pleasing to me. Until I met you there was no one who would shed a tear for Heinrich Stolz. I am content that you will mourn for me, for you are a kind soul and a man of deep feeling. I used to believe, when I was young, that I was also such a man. I never was.
I think we can never be what we dream to be. We either are, or we are not. Like the holy man, who is always the last to speak of his own worth, for that is what makes him holy. So with the kind man, the caring man.
But why am I writing this to you, who will not understand? It is because I have no one else to hear my meagre philosophy, and I look upon you as my son.
And now to the other matter. You live your li
fe like you play your chess; you react. In your present trouble this is not enough. You have two choices. You can run – or you can fight. But if you choose to fight you must understand the necessity of carrying the battle to the enemy. Go after him. Harry him. Destroy him. You can no longer stand like the rock against the tide. It will wash over you.
And as for this Jackie Green. Do not be frightened. To be what he is means he has no soul. And a great warrior must have soul. When you come to fight him, as I fear you must, take all he can offer. Absorb it all. Every second you withstand him he will grow weaker, and he will defeat himself. Trust me on this.
I wish, my dear friend, that I had known you longer. It would be nice to think that, in some future time, we could meet again. But I doubt the wise Lord will send you to my destination.
Think of me once in a while – and do not neglect your chess.
It was signed simply, ‘Stepney’. Bimbo read the letter three times before folding it and returning it to the envelope. Sitting in the old leather armchair he recalled his first meeting with Stepney two years before. It had been raining hard and Bimbo, soaked through, had stepped into the haven of a small cafe in Chiswick. There were perhaps twenty people inside and two men had been playing chess. One of the players, a young man in a bright red shirt was giving a running commentary on the game, much to the chagrin of his opponent.
‘Admit it, John, you’re out of your class. Mate’s inevitable.’
Nursing a cup of coffee, Bimbo had sat down at a nearby table and watched the rest of the game without any real interest. The man in the red shirt grinned at him. He was obviously trying to build an audience. Finally the other man knocked over his king and passed a £5 note across the table. The winner pocketed the money and took a small notebook from his shirt pocket. ‘That makes forty-nine straight wins,’ he said. ‘Anyone want to bring up the half ton?’
He looked at Bimbo, who shook his head. ‘I don’t play.’
‘Greatest game on earth,’ said Red Shirt. ‘Skill, daring, and lateral thinking. I don’t want to brag or anything, but you’ve got to be a bit special for this game. I learned it in Russia. Everyone plays it there. The name’s Francis, George Francis,’ he said, extending his hand to Bimbo.
Bimbo decided the rain was preferable to this prick’s company and was downing the last of his coffee when an elderly man moved into view, seating himself opposite Francis. He was slender, of medium height and balding. His face was sharp, his eyes small and button-bright. He was wearing an old pinstripe suit, and a gold watch chain showed on his waistcoat. ‘You would perhaps accept a challenge?’ he said, his voice clipped and precise, but unmistakably of East European origin.
‘I only play for money, grandad. Don’t want to steal your pension, do we?’
‘How kind of you, but it is not necessary. It is a rainy day, and we will, perhaps, offer some amusement to these travellers. Money, you say?’
‘A fiver a game, and I give odds of three to one. That’s fifteen quid if you win.’
‘How much are you carrying, young man?’
Francis grinned and pulled a wad of notes from his jacket. He spread the money theatrically on the table. There were fifteen £5 notes and four £10 notes.
‘One hundert and fifteen,’ said the old man. ‘Call it one-twenty.’ He opened his own wallet and counted out eight £5 notes. ‘That, I believe, is approximately one third of the total and therefore the bet is accepted.’
‘Do what?’ said Francis. ‘Hang on a minute, I said a fiver.’
‘You said odds of three to one. I accept. We will play for it all, for it is only money.’ He turned to Bimbo. ‘Be so kind as to hold on to this small fortune.’
Bimbo grinned and swept up the stake. ‘Be a pleasure.’
‘Which colour do you prefer?’ asked Stepney.
‘White.’
‘Then play. I notice that you like to chatter during the game. Please continue it. You could perhaps outline the state of play to the audience.’
People gathered round, moving tables for a better view. Even the cafe owner left his counter. Stepney spotted him. ‘Before you get comfortable, my friend, be so kind as to give everyone a drink and perhaps a sandwich. The winner will pay from his winnings.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the owner, smiling.
Bimbo concentrated on the board. He had no idea of the rules. Red Shirt’s white pieces at first seemed to be sweeping forward, while black could only block, but gradually the game settled down and Bimbo’s fascination began to fade. The old man sat largely unmoving, hunched over the table, his gimlet eyes fixed on the pieces. Red Shirt, after a quiet start, soon got into his stride.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘the Sicilian opening. Capablanca always used that. He was a chess star you know, years ago.’
The old man said nothing. Francis grew more at ease, his face mobile, a little smile here, a raised eyebrow there, a gentle, knowing, shake of the head.
Bimbo was growing bored, and had he not been holding the money, would have left. The challenger lost two pieces to Red Shirt’s one, and Bimbo didn’t think he could bear watching the braggart win again. His white pieces were all around Stepney’s king now, which was sheltering behind a row of pawns and a couple of figures shaped like horses’ heads.
‘Now this is fascinating,’ said Red Shirt. ‘We are entering what is called the “endgame”. All the manoeuvring for position is over. All that’s left now is the kill!’
‘Check,’ said the old man, sweeping his Bishop up the board and taking a pawn before the enemy King.
Francis smiled. ‘Do I detect a note of panic?’ he said, taking the offending Bishop with the King.
‘Check,’ said the old man, moving a Knight into position. A flash of irritation darkened Francis’ features. He stared at the board and swore. He moved his King, and the Knight took his Queen. ‘Check,’ said Stepney, his eyes shining now with undisguised malice.
‘Moved too fast, didn’t I?’ said Francis, forcing a smile. ‘Now let me think.’
‘Think all you like, young man, but it is mate in three,’ said the old man.
‘Play it out!’ snapped Francis. Stepney did so. Applause burst from the spectators.
‘How much for all the coffees and sandwiches?’ said the victor. The cafe owner consulted his pad.
‘Eighteen pounds twenty.’
‘Give him twenty pounds,’ Stepney ordered. Bimbo did so, then handed the man his winnings.
‘Walk me to my home,’ said the old man, striding away. Bimbo followed and soon found himself outside an antique shop near the station. He had often walked past it, and stopped to look at the old swords and pistols.
‘My name is Stepney. Come in and have some tea.’
‘You gave him a right turning over,’ said Bimbo. ‘Nice, that was.’
‘His arrogance annoyed me. Playing for money, indeed!’
‘He wasn’t no good then?’
‘He was not bad. But I am not bad either, and he was a fool. He should not have played a man he did not know – especially not when the stakes multiplied.’ With the tea finished, Stepney offered Bimbo £10. Bimbo shook his head.
‘I never earnt it.’
‘Never reject a gift, when the giver is sincere. Many people find such refusals offensive,’ said Stepney, returning the money to his pocket.
Bimbo had never known why the old man took to him, and he never cared much. Every now and again he would turn up at the shop, just before closing time, and enjoy a cup of tea and a chat. They would talk about sport or the weather, or Stepney, with wit and humour, would sound off about politics, morality and the stupidity of man. Now, in the cold flat, surrounded by the residue of a man’s life, Bimbo wished he’d spent more time with the old man.
‘Gonna miss ya, Step,’ he said.
It was a little after six when he arrived a
t Sherry Parker’s front door. He knocked and waited but at first there was no answer. He knocked again. Then he heard Sarah’s voice from upstairs.
‘But it’s Bimbo, mum.’
Sherry opened the door, but did not step aside to allow him in, nor did she meet his eyes.
‘I don’t think you’d better come round any more,’ she said.
Bimbo had expected an apology, or a welcome. Her question stunned him. ‘Why?’
‘You know why! You’re trouble. They threatened my kids over you. I can’t have that. I won’t have that.’
‘I aint blamin’ ya,’ said Bimbo. ‘I just thought …’
‘Just go away,’ she said, tears streaming. ‘Just bloody go away.’
It seemed a long walk home, and Bimbo found it inconceivable that all his current problems should have emanated from the simple desire to help a friend in need. He wasn’t in love with Sherry, but he knew he could have been, given a little time. Now she was lost to him. As Esther was lost to him. And Stepney.
He zipped his padded windcheater against the cold and crossed the road to the estate. The wind was picking up, but at least the rain was holding off. The estate was dark and gloomy with yet another street lamp knocked out of commission by a stone, or an airgun.
Who’d wanna live here? he asked himself.
A cloud moved back, like a veil lifted from the moon’s face, and the drab grey buildings suddenly shone like silver, giving the estate the momentary grandeur of a ghostly castle. A sudden movement from the left caught Bimbo’s eye. Instantly his fists came up – then he recognised the young black boy he had seen taking a beating. ‘Late to be out, son,’ said Bimbo, relieved.
‘I bin practising,’ said Jeremiah Andrews, holding up his cricket bat.
‘Daylight’s best for that,’ said Bimbo, moving on. Two men stepped from the moon shadows several yards ahead. Both were carrying pickaxe handles. A whisper of movement from behind. Bimbo swivelled and ducked. A club whistled over his head. His right fist thundered into the man’s belly, bringing a great whoosh of air exploding from his lungs. Bimbo left fist clubbed the back of the man’s neck and his assailant’s face hit the concrete. The man did not move. Reaching down, Bimbo swept up the pickaxe handle, just as the other two moved swiftly to the attack. The three-foot club flashed out, catching the first of the attackers in the ribs. He fell back. The second man aimed a slashing blow which Bimbo blocked. Releasing the club with his right hand, Bimbo lunged and grabbed the man’s jacket, dragging him forward into the dreaded ‘Liverpool Kiss’, his forehead smashing the man’s nose and half blinding him. Stepping back, Bimbo lashed the pickaxe handle into the man’s temple, catapulting him from his feet.
White Knight/Black Swan Page 21
