by Roberta Kray
Saul nodded. ‘Yes, that’s Tombs all right.’
‘And that’s Dan,’ she said, placing a finger on the man to his right. ‘They could have just stopped at the same time, couldn’t they? There’s a small crowd. It doesn’t have to mean anything.’
Saul glanced between the two pictures. ‘You did well recognising him from this. I don’t think I would have done.’
‘You weren’t married to him.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure it’s the same person?’
‘Yes,’ she said, putting as much conviction into her voice as she could muster. This wasn’t the time for doubts or hesitations. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Tell me about what’s happened. Elsa’s given me an outline, but I’d like to hear it from you.’
Judith hurried through the story. She stuck to the facts, omitting any unnecessary detail, everything from her first meeting with Dan to when she saw the picture in the Mirror. After she’d finished, she took a quick breath and added, ‘Does the name Ivor Doyle mean anything to you?’
‘Where does that come from?’
‘I’ve been doing the rounds of the locksmiths, showing them the photo. One of them, a chap in the West End, came up with it. He seemed to think he recognised him. So, have you heard the name before?’
‘Ivor Doyle,’ Saul repeated. The space between his eyes creased into two deep lines. ‘There’s a few Doyles around the East End. I’ll check it out.’
Judith felt a growing sense of disappointment. For a man who was supposed to know so many people, he wasn’t coming up with much. Perhaps Elsa had exaggerated the extent of his social circles. ‘Thank you.’
He drank some tea and put the mug down. ‘That’s if you’re certain you want me to go ahead.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because you might not like what I find out.’
Judith smiled grimly. ‘Nothing could be worse than not knowing. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering why he didn’t come home. I need the truth, however much it might hurt.’
‘It’s easy to say, but you might feel differently when you’re actually faced with it.’
‘I won’t shoot the messenger, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘And I won’t fall to pieces or do anything stupid. I’ll deal with it, whatever it is. At least I’ll know. They say ignorance is bliss, but it isn’t. There’s nothing worse than being in the dark.’
Saul nodded. ‘If he’s in London, I can find him. But you’ll have to be patient. It may take a little time.’
‘How much time?’
‘I’ll know more in a day or two. Why don’t we meet back here on Thursday? Seven o’clock again. Would that suit you?’
‘Thursday?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No, except … well, it could be. I’m only in London until the weekend, you see. It doesn’t give me much time.’
Saul drummed out a beat on the table with his fingertips. His mouth twisted a little, perhaps in irritation. ‘I can’t perform miracles.’
‘No, of course not.’
There was a short silence.
He expelled a light breath, glanced at the photographs and back at Judith. ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Meet me here tomorrow at seven.’
‘Thank you.’
He drained his mug, stood up and left. Judith put the photographs back in her bag. She continued to sit for a while, wondering if she was any further along than when she’d arrived. It still bothered her that Saul was a police officer. She’d been raised to respect the law and those who upheld it, but she found him rather sinister. If Dan was in some kind of trouble, mixed up with this Tombs man, would Saul really turn a blind eye? She sighed. It was too late to do anything about it. The wheels were already in motion.
By the time she left the café, the rain had stopped. Night was falling and the grey pavement glistened in the twilight. She walked slowly, deep in thought, hoping she would get some answers before she had to go home on Saturday. If she could, she would stay an extra day, but travelling was tricky on a Sunday.
It was when she was approaching the junction with Station Road, her mind beginning to focus on her surroundings again, that she was struck by the disturbing notion that she was being watched. It was a weird sixth-sense thing, a tingling on the back of her neck, an inexplicable knowledge that somebody’s gaze was on her. Quickly she glanced over her shoulder, but her view was blocked by a group of girls who were walking four abreast, their arms linked together. As she tried to peer round them, she thought she saw a figure scurry down an alleyway. Or was it just her imagination? She hurried on towards the B&B, eager to get behind closed doors.
13
Jimmy Taylor slunk along the alley, relieved that he’d got away with it. He wasn’t sure why he’d been following her. Just for the hell of it, he supposed. And because he wanted to get his own back. He hadn’t liked the way she’d talked to him yesterday, as if he was some kind of liar. And yes, all right, so he had been lying, but that wasn’t the point. She had no right to speak to him like that. The stupid tart didn’t even know Ivor Doyle’s real name.
Jimmy hadn’t lied to protect Ivor – he barely knew the bloke – but in order to ingratiate himself with Alfred Tombs. Mr Tombs was number one round here. If you wanted to get on, he was the one to work for. There were plenty of villains in the East End, but none of them were as smart or as successful. Trouble was, people were queuing to get in on the act and Jimmy was at the back of the line. It didn’t help that he was an outsider. The locals didn’t trust strangers, and you didn’t stop being a stranger in a hurry.
It was three years now since Jimmy’s father had decided to up sticks, leave the sleepy south coast town he’d been born in and bring his family to live in London. There were prospects in the capital, that was what he’d said. The streets might not be paved with gold, but there were plenty of new buildings needed after the Blitz, and new buildings needed doors, and doors needed locks.
Jimmy had ambitions too, but they weren’t the same as his dad’s. The locksmith business involved long hours, with small rewards. Yes, there was a living to be made, but it was a basic one. Big money, that was what he was after. The girls round here – the good-looking ones, at least – didn’t look twice unless you could flash the cash. His meagre salary wasn’t going to impress anyone.
What he had to do was prove to Mr Tombs that he could be trusted, and that he could be useful to him. He’d made a start, but now he had to build on it. At nineteen, he had his whole life ahead of him, and he didn’t intend to waste it cutting keys for gossipy old ladies. London was full of opportunities, there for the taking, and he wasn’t going to stand by and watch them slip through his fingers.
He pushed his hands into his pockets and kept on walking until he reached another alley that wound round onto Station Road. Maybe the redhead – Judith, that was her name – could be the solution to his problems. As yet, he didn’t know exactly how or why, but her connection to Doyle was interesting. He’d been locking up the shop, intending to go for a pint, when he’d seen her leave the B&B with a worried expression on her face. It had been an impulse to follow and see what she was up to.
When she’d gone into Connolly’s, he’d been tempted to go inside too, but hadn’t dared. The caff was quiet and she might have noticed him. Instead, he’d crossed the road and sheltered in the doorway of the butcher’s. By the time twenty minutes had passed, he’d been starting to feel like a fool. The woman was only having a brew. It was then, just as he was about to leave, that the bloke had arrived.
Jimmy didn’t know who he was, but she’d talked to him for fifteen minutes or so. And he was pretty certain she’d shown him the photograph. He’d been too far away to see clearly, but she’d definitely taken something out of her bag and passed it across the table. So what was going on? Something that spelled trouble for Doyle, that was for sure. Maybe the bloke was one of t
hose private detectives who made a living from rooting around in other people’s dirty laundry. Not a cop, he thought. He didn’t look like a cop, and anyway, Jimmy knew most of the local constabulary by sight. Some of them even drank in the Fox.
He might have followed the man, tried to find out who he was, if it hadn’t been pissing down with rain. Instead he’d waited to see what Judith would do next. In the event, it hadn’t been that fascinating. Ten minutes later, after the rain had stopped, she’d come out and headed back along the high street. He’d kept his distance, letting a group of girls get between them. It was a good thing he’d been careful, or she would have clocked him when she glanced over her shoulder.
By the time he made it back onto Station Road, there was no sign of her. She must have gone into Sycamore House. As he drew level with the B&B, he resisted the urge to look up at the windows and instead crossed the road and went into the Fox. After his unplanned spying mission, he was in need of a drink.
At the bar, while he was waiting to be served, Jimmy’s gaze roamed over the barmaid’s curves. She was a blonde in her early twenties with a narrow waist and a good pair of tits. He didn’t stand a chance, but a man could dream.
‘Pint of mild, please, love.’
‘Coming up.’
‘You’re new, aren’t you? I’ve not seen you here before.’
‘That’s right.’
‘How are you finding it, then?’
She gave a dry smile. ‘Oh, it’s easy, hon. I just took a right turn out of the station and here it was.’
Jimmy stared blankly back at her.
‘It’s a joke,’ she said. ‘Never mind.’
Jimmy didn’t like it when people laughed at him. Was she? He wasn’t sure. His eyes narrowed into slits while he tried to figure it out. He couldn’t always tell with girls; they had a language of their own, a way of saying one thing when they really meant another. He pursed his lips. She wouldn’t mock if he was working for Alf Tombs. She’d show him some bloody respect.
The blonde pulled his pint, placed the glass on the counter and held out her hand for the money. ‘That’s a bob, ta.’
Jimmy paid, tried to think of something smart to say, came up with nothing and took his drink over to an empty table. It wasn’t empty for long. No sooner had he parked his backside on a chair than Sean Kelly sauntered through from the back of the pub and sat down beside him.
‘I see you’ve met the lovely Marcie, then,’ he said, smirking. ‘What do you reckon?’
Jimmy, who was still wrestling with his feelings of inadequacy, gave a shrug. ‘She’s not all that.’
‘You gone blind or what?’
‘I’ve seen better is all I’m saying.’
‘Since when did you get so fussy?’ Sean leered at the barmaid across the room. ‘Christ, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.’
Jimmy had never even managed to get a girl into bed, never mind kick one out. It filled him with dismay that he was still a virgin, a humiliating state of affairs he worked hard to keep under wraps. He’d considered paying for it, going to one of the tarts on the Albert Road, but was too afraid of catching something. Be just his luck to fall for a dose and have to visit the doctor, where there was bound to be some nosy neighbour sitting in the waiting room, some vile old bitch who wouldn’t be slow to mention his presence there to his mother. Gossip spread as quickly as the clap round here.
While Sean prattled on – sex and football were his only two topics of conversation – Jimmy’s gaze flicked back to the barmaid. She was chatting to a dark-haired spiv, flashing her teeth and giving him the glad eye. Resentment smouldered inside him. He was sick of being overlooked, ignored, of never being given a second look. It was time for a change. He scratched the top of his thigh, then his balls, and thought about the redhead. She had come here to cause trouble, but two could play at that game. If he could find a way to get rid of her, Ivor Doyle would be happy – and if Doyle was happy, then Alfred Tombs would be too. He’d heard the two men were tight, like father and son. But how to go about solving the problem of the mouthy bitch? While he slurped his pint, he pondered on it.
14
Saul Hannah was sitting in a Soho dive called Starlight. There was nothing starry about it, or anything light come to that. It was a gloomy basement with about as much good cheer as a charnel house. Midnight had come and gone and there were only six other customers, all of them down-at-heel losers with nowhere better to go. He fitted in nicely.
He was on his second whisky, still reeling from the news he’d been presented with at Scotland Yard: the Special Duty Squad was to be disbanded in a month. The reason given – that the crime wave had been contained and therefore the squad was no longer needed – was clearly disingenuous. Why fix something that wasn’t broken? It was a bad move, the worst, but no one was interested in his opinion. He had his own theories about what was behind the decision, most of which revolved around political infighting and petty power struggles. There were rumours that Division weren’t happy about so many leads going to the Flying Squad, and stories too that the top brass found the running of informants (and the amount they were paid) distasteful.
Saul curled his lip. What was distasteful was villains getting away with murder, quite literally in some cases. Crime in London might be down, thanks to himself and his colleagues, but it was still rife. A move like this could easily reverse all their good work. Of course, he’d still have his snouts when he was assigned to West End Central in October, but he wouldn’t have the same amount of time to go chasing after them.
He drained his glass, caught the barman’s eye, and ordered another. With only a month left on the squad, he intended to make the most of it and that meant concentrating his efforts on Tombs. If he could purge London of that man’s nefarious activities, then decent people would sleep more easily in their beds. It was for this reason – and because his throat was as dry as sawdust – that he was sitting in this godforsaken dump waiting for Roy Monaghan to finish emptying his bladder and come back to join him.
It was a few more minutes before Monaghan emerged from the gents’, shambled across the room and, with some minor difficulty, climbed onto the bar stool. He was a slight, dishevelled man in his mid fifties with a narrow, bony face and a receding hairline. What defined his appearance, however, was the angry wound that ran from the top of his left ear, along his cheek to the corner of his mouth.
‘I ain’t no tea leaf, Mr Hannah,’ he grumbled, picking up his glass. ‘Alf got it all wrong. A loan, that’s all it were. I had a bit of a shortfall, see, a few debts that needed paying. She’d have got her money before the week was out.’
‘You been playing the tables again?’ Saul was aware that Monaghan was a hopeless gambler, the sort who chased his losses and never knew when to quit.
Monaghan shrugged. ‘I had a run of bad luck. You know how it is.’
Saul studied his face. ‘That’s going to leave a nasty scar.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know. I tried to explain, for all the good it did. Once Alf’s got an idea in his head … He wouldn’t listen to reason, wouldn’t give me a chance. And look what the bastard’s gone and done now.’ His hand fluttered up to his face, his fingertips gingerly touching the edges of the wound. He winced. ‘It ain’t right, is it? It ain’t bloody right!’
‘Not much thanks for all those years of loyal service,’ Saul said, stirring the pot. ‘A liberty, that’s what it is. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’
Monaghan’s eyes grew wary. ‘I ain’t going to the law if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘It never crossed my mind, but maybe I could pick your brains about something – or rather, someone.’
‘Who’s that, then?’
‘Let me get you another drink. A double, is it?’ Saul called the barman over. ‘Another whisky for my friend here. Make it a large one.’
Monaghan, placated, took a few quick sips before putting the glass down on the bar. ‘What’s on your m
ind?’
‘Ivor Doyle. What can you tell me about him?’
‘Doyle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tall geezer, fair hair.’
‘I know what he looks like. What’s the deal with him and Tombs?’
Monaghan grinned. ‘He’s the man with the magic fingers, ain’t he? They say he can open any lock in the country. Don’t know if it’s true, mind, but that’s the story. Lives over near Old Street but keeps himself to himself. He and Alf go way back.’
Saul had recognised Doyle when Judith Jonson had shown him the photograph, but he hadn’t let on. He had a file full of villains who had worked with Tombs, complete with mug-shots – a veritable rogues’ gallery. Information on Doyle was slim: over the past year he had been pulled in for questioning about various robberies, but nothing had stuck. His only conviction had been for breaking and entering when he was fifteen years of age. Since then, his sheet had been clean. The man was clearly as slippery as his boss.
Saul had more questions to ask. Anything that would eventually help him to nail Tombs would be useful.
‘Was he around during the war?’
Monaghan shook his head. ‘He disappeared a year or so before. Can’t remember when, exactly. There was some trouble and he scarpered.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘He and Hull had a falling-out.’
‘Would that be Pat Hull or the late lamented Lennie?’
‘Lennie,’ Monaghan said.
‘A falling-out over what?’
‘Whatever thieves usually fall out over. I don’t know the details. Doyle cleared off and I didn’t see him again until …’ Monaghan frowned while he thought about it. ‘Let me see, it must have been just before the end of the war. It was after Lennie went to meet his maker, that’s for sure.’
‘Any connection?’
Monaghan’s mouth slid into a sly smile. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he felt it was safe to come back once Lennie wasn’t around.’
