by Roberta Kray
‘You could give it all up. Why not? There’s enough in the bank. You don’t have to keep on with the jobs. We could start a little business, something legit, a caff or a pub perhaps. I’m a grafter, Alf. I’d make it work. We could do it together. Then I wouldn’t need to be worrying about you day and night.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Renee huffed out a breath. ‘You always say that. You’re fiftytwo. You can’t keep doing this for ever.’
Alf nodded as though she had a point, even though she didn’t. A bloke like him couldn’t just retire from his profession. There were people who depended on him: the men he worked with, the wives and kids of men inside, the fellers who had fallen on hard times and the endless list of relatives who expected his help even if they didn’t deserve it. He was no Robin Hood; he simply understood that loyalty had a price. You had to keep people sweet if you wanted them to keep their mouths shut.
‘We could make a real go of it,’ she said. ‘Our own little business, and no worries about a knock on the door in the middle of the night.’
What Renee didn’t grasp was that the nice little business wouldn’t last five minutes. Most of their customers would be crooked and too many would be after a free meal or a free pint or a free bloody anything. They’d be tapping him right, left and centre until all the profits had disappeared into thin air. No, it just wouldn’t work. And anyway, he had a few years left in him yet. He wasn’t ready to hang up his boots, no matter what Renee wanted.
A man got used to a certain lifestyle, and although he’d never been flash, he liked the good things in life: well-made suits and shirts and shoes, a decent haircut, wholesome food, a comfortable place to live and the occasional holiday. The Kellston flat wasn’t fancy but it was big enough for the two of them, nicely furnished, with a bit of garden out back. He could have afforded something much grander, but he knew better than to flaunt his wealth. The filth picked up on that kind of thing. Of course, they knew he was at it, that he was always earning from one job or another, but it had been a good few years since they’d caught him in the act.
Renee sipped her tea and gazed wistfully at him. ‘We could go to Kent, out in the country somewhere. Or a town if you’d prefer it.’
‘Wouldn’t you miss the Smoke?’
‘I wouldn’t miss you going AWOL for days at a time.’
‘You know what it’s like.’
‘What it’s like, love, is lonely. It’s bad enough when you’re banged up, but even when you’re out, you’re hardly home.’
Alf couldn’t deny this. He often spent whole days on a job, and then there was business to sort out after: the shifting and sale of the gear, the distribution of the money, a few drinks with the lads. He was also running several spielers now, gambling joints where the games went on all night. It was easy money, with minimum risk. Occasionally the clubs would be raided and shut down by the law, but all they had to do was change location. Within a week a new club would open and it would be business as usual. Old Bill were always playing catch-up, always on the back foot.
‘There’s a few things in the pipeline, but after that—’
‘After that, there’ll be a few more things. I know what you’re like. Why not knock it on the head? There’s no risk in a caff and you won’t have to be looking over your shoulder twenty-four hours a day.’
But what Alf liked was variety in his work. He couldn’t imagine doing the same thing day in, day out. He’d die of boredom. No, he wasn’t cut out for it. He’d had a good war, made and spent a fortune, but even now there were still plenty of opportunities out there. Supply and demand, that was what it was all about. With so many shortages, he had customers virtually queuing round the block for whisky and nylons and furs.
‘Maybe in the new year,’ he said. ‘We’ll see how it goes.’
‘The new year,’ she echoed. ‘What’s going to be different then?’
Alf didn’t bother to answer. He couldn’t fault Renee as a wife – she’d stuck by him through thick and thin – but the woman didn’t understand that what he did was what he was. Crime was a way of life to him, had been since he was a boy. And he’d worked hard to get where he was today, using his brains as well as his muscle. Now that he was at the top of the tree, he wasn’t going to climb down just because Renee was shaking the branches. There’d come a time when he was too old for the business, when he could no longer command the respect he needed, but that time wasn’t here yet.
He shifted his hand and examined the bruises on his knuckles. Monaghan had got what he deserved. He’d chivved him too, run the blade right down his cheek so everyone would know that Alf Tombs had sorted it. Monaghan had stolen from him, taken the cash that was supposed to be delivered to Ruby Beech – her old man was doing a five-stretch for robbery – and put it in his own pocket. The thieving bastard had been taught a lesson, one he’d remember every morning when he looked in the mirror. If you let one lowlife take a liberty, the rest wouldn’t be far behind.
There was a knock on the door and he got up to answer it.
‘I thought you were staying in this evening,’ Renee said.
‘I am. I promised, didn’t I?’
She gave him a look as if to say that his promises didn’t count for much.
Alf opened the door to find Jimmy Taylor standing on the front step. ‘What can I do for you, son?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Tombs, but I reckoned I should let you know. There’s been a piece asking after Doyle. She’s been in the shop with a photo. And not just our place neither; she’s been all over from what I’ve heard.’
‘And?’ Alf asked, wondering why he was being bothered by this.
‘I don’t know where to find him and … Well, I reckon she’s out to cause trouble. Said I should pass a message on that she ain’t going home until she’s talked to him. Judith, that’s her name. She’s staying at Sycamore House on Station Road. Thing is, Mr Tombs, she claims she’s his cousin, but she calls him Dan, so …’ He shrugged. ‘She can’t be, can she? I reckoned he ought to know.’
Had it had been to do with any of the other boys, Alf would have laughed it off – it wasn’t the first or the last time a bloke had lied to a woman about his identity – but because it was Doyle, he thought twice. Maybe he should follow it up. It was probably something and nothing, just some dewy-eyed tart with a broken heart, but if she started poking her nose into Doyle’s business, she’d be poking it into his too. And he didn’t need that right now, not with a couple of big jobs in the offing.
He reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet and offered Jimmy a note. ‘Here, have this for your trouble.’
‘Ah, no, Mr Tombs, I’m not after … I don’t want any money. I just wanted to let you know.’
‘All right, son, ta. I appreciate it.’ When the lad continued to stand there, Alf asked, ‘Was there something else?’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’ll be off, then.’
Alf nodded, went back inside and put on his hat. He poked his head into the living room. ‘I’ve got to go out. I’ll only be an hour.’
‘I’ll expect you when I see you.’
‘An hour,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve some business but it won’t take long.’
Renee didn’t ask what sort of business. She never did. She just raised her eyes to the ceiling.
Outside, the air was still and heavy, as though a summer storm was on its way. He got into the car and adjusted the rear-view mirror, keeping his eyes peeled for the law. From time to time they liked to follow him around, trying to keep tabs on where he was going and who he was meeting. The problem was that they weren’t very good at it. He could always spot a tail, and feel it too, like a sixth sense prickling the back of his neck. It was good sport losing them and never took long. He knew Kellston up and down and back to front: every twisting street, every alleyway, every short cut that had ever existed.
This evening, however, he was on his own. A few spots of rain dotted the windscreen as he pulled
out. He lit a fag and pondered on Doyle. Woman trouble. Well, he wasn’t alone there. Renee would already be totting up her resentments, preparing a bill for when he got home. He didn’t mind staying in with her once in a while, not if it kept her happy, but sometimes he wondered if it was worth the bother. Maybe the relationship had run its course. They had always wanted different things, and always would.
Alf trusted Doyle, insofar as he trusted anyone. The bloke wasn’t the sort to shoot his mouth off about what he’d done or what he was planning to do; he kept his head down and stayed away from trouble. But he was difficult to read. You never really knew what he was thinking. People talked about honour amongst thieves, but it was all rubbish. When push came to shove, it was every man for himself.
Greyness had fallen, a premature dusk, and there was that feeling of everything holding its breath. Alf heard a distant rumble of thunder. He sucked on his fag and threw the butt out of the window. The heavens opened as he approached Old Street, the clouds releasing long, driving rods of rain that battered the road in front of him. He drove on to City Road, took a right and wound round to Ironmonger Row, past the baths, pulling in by a small terraced house.
He waited for a while, hoping the rain would ease, but when it showed no sign of abating, he ran from the car up the path and into the shelter of a small porch. He brushed the rain off his shoulders, raised his hand and gave a couple of knocks on the blue door. It was answered by Doyle, clearly surprised to see him.
‘Alf. What brings you here? Is there a problem?’
Alf peered past him into the hall and kept his voice low. ‘Are you on your own?’
As if in response, a female voice drifted from the back of the house. ‘Who is it, Ivor? Is it for me?’
Doyle glanced over his shoulder. ‘No, it’s not for you.’ He moved forward into the porch, pulling the door to behind him. ‘I’d invite you in, but you know how it is.’
‘It’s all right. I understand.’
‘Is there trouble?’
‘There might be – for you. There’s a woman in Kellston claiming to be your cousin. She’s been doing the rounds of the local locksmiths trying to track you down.’
Doyle frowned. ‘It must be a mistake. I haven’t got any cousins.’
‘That’s what I thought, but from all accounts she won’t take no for an answer. Reckons she’s going nowhere until you talk to her. Says her name’s Judith.’
At the mention of the name, Doyle recoiled as if he’d been hit, his body colliding with the door frame. ‘Judith? What? It can’t be. She can’t be …’
Alf didn’t think he’d ever seen a face turn so grey. ‘Easy does it,’ he said, stretching out a hand to steady the man. ‘Christ, you look like you just saw a ghost.’
10
Saul Hannah lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head. He watched through half-closed eyes as Elsa moved around the room picking up her clothes from where she’d dropped them on the floor. She had a feline quality, something almost feral, like a wild cat quietly patrolling its territory. He had no idea what went on in her mind. Even when they were having sex, when he was inside her, when he was looking straight into her face, there was no real connection between them. They were like strangers who met and fucked and went their separate ways. Except they kept on doing it.
Outside, the rain was thrashing against the window, making the glass shudder and shake. His breathing was starting to settle now, his heart rate slowing, his thoughts regathering into short, straight, practical lines. He stretched out his legs and wriggled his toes. He felt the sweat cooling on his skin. Her smell was still on him, the scent of perfume and that other distinctive female odour. He sniffed, leaned over to grab his jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes.
‘Are you making a brew?’ he asked.
Elsa slipped into a robe, covering her nakedness. ‘Does it look like it?’
‘I wouldn’t mind one – if it’s not too much bother.’
She pulled a face, sighed and left the room. A short while after, he heard the hiss of the gas ring and the clatter of the kettle. He lit a fag and smoked it while he got dressed. Then he went through to join her.
The living room of Elsa’s basement flat was small but tidy, with everything arranged to make the most of the limited space. It was stylish, he supposed, in an inexpensive sort of way. Not exactly to his taste, but then his taste was purely functional. There was no separate kitchen, just a corner reserved for a few cupboards and the gas rings. Two easy chairs were covered in a matching stripy fabric, and he chose the one furthest from the window. On the wall directly ahead was a large framed print of three women gathered at the base of a tree. Gauguin, he guessed, but wasn’t sure. He wasn’t big on art. The clothes were bright, the tree cobalt blue. He shifted his gaze again. To his right was a folding table, and on it was a half-full bottle of whisky and a vase containing a bunch of white roses.
‘So what’s new?’ he asked.
Elsa had her back to him as she filled the teapot with hot water. ‘One of the Rossini brothers – the younger one, the one with the limp – he’s been flogging petrol coupons. He was at it in the caff, bold as brass. All fakes, of course. They must be. That lot are too lazy to do any actual robbing.’
Saul nodded. There would be no end to the forgeries until the austerity measures were lifted. God alone knew how many printing presses were churning out fake coupons, some of them better than others, but all of them instantly snapped up by drivers desperate to keep their cars on the road.
‘You seen anything of Roy Monaghan?’
Elsa glanced over her shoulder. ‘No, not for a few days. Have you tried the Black Lion?’
‘Yes, and the Fox, and every other pub, bar and dive he usually hangs out in.’
‘Is it true about him and Alf Tombs?’
‘What have you heard?’
Elsa gave the pot a stir and put the teaspoon in the sink. ‘Same as everyone else, I expect. They’re saying he took some money, that Alf gave him a hiding. He’s a lowlife, that Monaghan. He’d nick the last crust of bread from his grandma.’
Saul stared at the bottle of whisky, feeling that familiar thirst rising in his throat. She must have seen him looking, because she asked, ‘You want a shot?’ The answer to that was yes, but he resisted the temptation. He had a late meeting at Scotland Yard in an hour and it wouldn’t do to turn up stinking of Scotch. ‘I’ll stick with the tea, thanks.’
Elsa came over with two mugs, handed one to him and sat down in the other chair. ‘I had a girl come into the caff this afternoon. She’s searching for her old man, thinks he might be in Kellston somewhere. I’ve arranged for you to see her tomorrow in Connolly’s, seven o’clock if that’s all right.’
Saul frowned. ‘Since when did I become the missing persons department? I don’t do absent husbands.’
‘Hear me out first. Believe me, this girl’s got a story. Her name’s Judith and her husband was reported missing during the war. Nothing unusual about that, but then she opens a newspaper last week and who should she see in a photo but her darling Dan standing in the middle of New Bond Street.’
‘Fascinating,’ he said drily. ‘I still don’t see why this should concern me.’
‘Will you listen? I haven’t finished yet. It’s who he was standing with that’s interesting.’ She left a short, dramatic pause. ‘None other than Alf Tombs!’
Saul’s ears pricked up. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Now I didn’t recognise this Dan bloke myself, but Jimmy Taylor did – you know, the locksmith on Station Road – ’cept he pretended he didn’t. She’s been showing that photo all over Kellston but no one’s given her the time of day. She reckons Dan’s using a different name, as Jimmy only reacted when he looked at the picture.’
‘Why Kellston?’
‘This is where he grew up, apparently.’
‘And what does this Dan look like?’
‘He’s in his late thirties, fair hair, very blond
. You can see the photo for yourself if you turn up tomorrow. Anyway, I thought the Tombs angle might grab you.’ Elsa leaned back, crossed her legs and sipped her tea. ‘How I figure it, for what it’s worth, is that this Dan got a little overenthusiastic during the war. He met Judith, had the hots for her, and decided the only way he was going to get into her pants was to marry her. Anyhow, he has his fun, rejoins his regiment and then gets cold feet about the whole thing. When he has the good fortune to be missing in action, he sees a way out. He comes back to London, changes his name and starts a new life – perhaps even gets married again. With Judith believing she’s a widow, he doesn’t have to worry about her showing up on his doorstep. At least that’s what he thinks. Then a press photographer snaps him in a street, she sees the picture and it’s game over.’
Saul rolled the idea around in his head. As theories went, it wasn’t such a bad one, but there was a flaw. ‘It’s impossible to take on a new identity in a place where people know you. Why come back here at all? Why not go somewhere new, somewhere no one’s going to recognise you or ask tricky questions?’
‘Mm,’ Elsa said, ‘you’ve got a point. Maybe it was the other way round. Maybe he was already married and came back to his original wife and kids. You’re the detective, you figure it out. The one sure thing is that the bloke isn’t going to be happy about Judith being on the scene, especially if there’s a bigamy charge looming on the horizon. And even if there isn’t, I shouldn’t think he’ll relish the thought of seeing her again. If you can make it all go away, make her go away, it could give you some leverage.’
What she meant by leverage, Saul surmised, was information on Alf Tombs. And he couldn’t deny that the idea was appealing; every good cop wanted that villain off the street. It would be a major achievement to get him behind bars again. In his head, he was already going through all the men he knew of who worked with Tombs and who would match the description. He already had one in mind, but first he’d have to check that photograph.
