The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  After almost an hour of questioning, they thanked her for her time and said she could leave. There was no offer to drive her back to the club. She stepped out through the front door and in to Saville Row. She thought about calling Randall but decided she needed to take in some air to help her think about what had occurred. It took her over half an hour walking slowly through the back streets of Soho and across Old Compton Street. She was propositioned three times on the journey. Randall saw her approaching from the top of the slight incline and came up to meet her halfway. He put his arm around her and guided her back through the door of Silk's and into the bar, motioning her to sit on one of the two stools.

  “Give her a large brandy, Rock,” he instructed the barman who simply nodded and reached below the counter for the bottle. What he poured out was more like a treble measure as far as she could tell. She took two or three small sips at first then threw the remainder down her throat, wincing as the alcohol burned the inside of her mouth. She wasn't used to spirits. Randall sat on the bar stool next to Samantha and let his hand rest on her forearm as her tears started to flow. The shock was only just beginning to affect her. Finishing the drink, she looked up at Rocky. He understood immediately and poured her another. This time, she sipped it gingerly. Randall wanted to know what the police had asked her and what she had told them in response. As he listened, he nodded occasionally, his hand still on her arm.

  “There are no cameras in here, so Old Bill won't be able to identify the guy who went off with Carla,” he informed her. “I've seen him in here before, though. It's possible he doesn't know what's happened to her and may come in again.”

  “Not likely, Al,” Rocky said from his position behind the bar. His statement caused both Samantha and Randall to turn and stare at him. Rocky rarely said anything at all. “Well,” he said, realising they were staring at him. “He's obviously given her the coke and knows she's been in a bad way. Probably left her there to be found.” Randall was inclined to agree and said so.

  “It goes against the grain normally,” he said, “but I'll be happy to give the police a description of the bloke. I got a good look at him as he came out. He stopped in the doorway to light a cigar.”

  Just then, Harris came up the stairs from his office. He cast an eye over Samantha and realised how badly shaken she was. He took a wad of twenty pound notes from his inside pocket and peeled five of them off, handing them to the girl.

  “There's a oner there, sweet'eart,” he said, attempting his version of a smile. “Take a few days off and get yerself straight. Alright?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and went back down the stairs.

  “He's right, love,” Randall told her warmly. “You need to take some time to get over this. You've had one hell of a shock. Get a cab home and I'll drop in on my way to work tomorrow evening to see how you are.” She nodded so Randall stepped out and flagged down a vacant taxi that was cruising up the street, its yellow 'For Hire' light like a beacon in the darkness.

  When he visited her the next evening, Samantha had calmed down considerably and was thinking more about finding the man responsible for Carla's death. She voiced her opinion to Randall while the pair sat on the edge of her bed.

  “Even if they do find this Mark, do you think they will be able to prove that he gave the drugs to Carla?” she asked, almost fearful of the reply she would get.

  “Probably not, love,” Randall answered with a shake of his head. “They might have their suspicions, but unless someone actually saw him give her the cocaine, the police won't have a case and he'll get away with it.” Samantha thought that may be the case and her head drooped.

  “Well if I find him, I'll kill him myself,” she said with venom. “The bastard lost the right to exist after he gave that stuff to Carla. I know she was a bit on the wild side, but she didn't deserve to die like that.” Randall knew from her expression that she meant what she had said.

  “I can always do something to help out if we can find the bloke,” he told her. She looked at him and almost smiled.

  “I was hoping you would,” she said and kissed his cheek.

  Later that evening, one of the local Detective Inspectors came into the club. Randall knew that he often collected 'wages' from Lenny Harris in return for looking the other way or dropping him some information. The man ambled nonchalantly up to the door smoking his trademark cheroot, the collar of his overcoat turned up and his trilby hat tilted at a jaunty angle.

  “Alright, Alan? How's tricks? You been busy?” he asked, leaning against the door frame next to Randall, hands in his pockets and his crafty eyes squinting against the flashing neon lights.

  “Can't complain, Cole,” he replied with a shrug. “Wouldn't do any good if I did, would it?” The D.I. laughed when he heard Randall's response.

  “Quite right, my son.” He took a deep drag on his cheroot, gazing up the street at nothing in particular. “I need to see Lenny. He about?” Randall nodded and disappeared through the beaded curtain.

  “Rocky,” he said to the barman. “Nip downstairs and tell Lenny that Colin Tiptree is here to see him. Might be about Carla because he had his beer money last week and he only collects once a month.” Rocky nodded his understanding of the situation and squeezed his way out from behind the small bar. A few minutes later, Harris came out into the foyer and peered into the street over Randall's shoulder.

  “What's all this, Colin?” he enquired. “Wasn't expecting you just yet. You not happy with the drink I bunged you?”

  “Nothing like that, Len. I've got to have a chat with you and young Alan here about this Carla girl,” the detective told him. “Higher up people than me are asking questions and they've dropped it in my lap, so here I am. They're still waiting for the autopsy report but everything points to an overdose, probably coke.” Harris nudged Randall to one side to allow Tiptree to enter. The young girl behind the desk knew this was none of her business and, smiling sweetly at the newcomer, made herself scarce. When the three men were alone, Randall gave the D.I. his best recollection of the man that Carla had called Mark. Tiptree rapidly scribbled in his own version of shorthand into his notebook without interrupting. At that point Gerry, one of the regular Soho touts, approached the door with two possible punters. Seeing Tiptree at the door and recognising him immediately as police, he scampered past with the two men in tow. Gerry didn't want to have to come into contact with any policemen and was obviously taking the customers elsewhere. Harris saw all this and was annoyed.

  “Come on, Cole,” he said with exasperation. “You standin' at my fuckin' door is bad fer business, mate.” The policeman smiled as he put away his notebook. He hunched his shoulders against the cold.

  “Alright, Len.” he said. “I'll toddle off and write this lot up. I'll see you another time.” With that he walked away towards Shaftesbury Avenue. Harris leaned out through the door and watched him go, his forehead wrinkled more than usual in a suspicious frown. He felt uneasy.

  “Watch him, Alan,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “He's a slippery bastard, that one. Don't mind taking the backhanders but would still nick yer if 'e thought 'e could get a conviction.” Randall nodded his agreement. As far as he was concerned, no copper could be trusted.

  Left alone at the door once more, Randall started to think about what Samantha had said. It was a subject that occupied most of his mind for quite a few days. Then he remembered how Samantha had dealt with her friend's boyfriend a while back. He needed to get hold of another gun. There was the arms dealer who he had been at school with many years previously but kept in touch with from time to time. Dave Perrett owned a greengrocer's shop in Saffron Walden High Street in Essex and ran a sideline in dealing guns and ammunition to whoever could afford his price. Randall had used his services a few times in the past. He lived not far from the shop, in Gibson Way and Randall paid him a visit at his home one Sunday afternoon, parking outside the nearby United Reformed Church in Park Lane. He walked round the corner to Perrett's pebble-dashed hou
se with the smart, almost new, dark green BMW saloon parked on the gravel driveway outside. Perrett answered the doorbell almost immediately and was shocked to see his old school mate standing on the step.

  “Blimey, Al,” he said with genuinely pleasant surprise. “You're the last person I expected to see on my doorstep. You don't often come out to the sticks so you must be after something.” Randall laughed as they shook hands and went inside.

  “I need a little favour, Dave, my old mate,” he said as he was led from the door and into the spacious living room. Ignoring the plush sofa and armchairs, the two men sat in upright chairs beside a highly polished table adorned with bright yellow flowers in the bay window. “Are we alone, mate?” he enquired, looking over his shoulder. Perrett nodded as he replied.

  “Yes, no worries. Mrs. P. has just gone round to the shop to check on some stock. She won't be back for about half an hour. What is it you're after?” He knew Randall hadn't just called for a chat.

  “Something powerful enough to take a man out with just one shot but have a silencer fitted. Preferably something small and light that can be easily concealed. A woman's gun, I suppose you could call it.” Perrett, sitting in the opposite chair, leaned back, his eyes half closed in contemplation. With his chin cupped in his hand he was deep in thought for a moment.

  “I'll tell you what immediately comes to mind,” he eventually said. “I think I might be able to get my hands on a Maxim nine millimetre semi-automatic pistol. It's quite a new model with a built-in suppressor, or silencer as you plebs would call it. The weapon is relatively new on the market, built on a Smith and Wesson M&P chassis and by all accounts it's a good one. They don't come cheap, mind, and I've got my overheads to cover as well, Alan.” Randall knew the man wouldn't stitch him up with the price but still wanted to get some sort of deal.

  “How about having it returned to you after use? Would that bring the price down, mate?” Perrett gave a half smile and nodded slowly.

  “You tight bastard, Al,” he said. “Alright. The things I do for mates, eh? If I can get it back immediately afterwards I can let you have it for ninety quid, but the full magazine is an extra tenner. That any good for you?”

  “That'll do for me,” Randall replied. “When can I collect it?”

  “I'll have to order it from my source but with a bit of luck it should be here by Friday.”

  “Okay, Dave. I'll give you a bell on Friday evening and sort something out. Probably come out for it on Saturday. That be alright?” Perrett assured him that it would. They sat there and reminisced about old times, and deeds done for nearly another hour before Perrett showed him to the door, slipping the hundred pounds that Randall had just given him into the hip pocket of his denims.

  So it was that six days later, Randall collected the gun from Essex. Dave Perrett came out to his car at a casual pace and handed it over below the level of the windows. It was wrapped in an old cloth with brown paper around it. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he did so.

  “Penny knows all about my dealings, she's an absolute angel,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper referring to his wife, even though they were well out of earshot of the house. “I've been doing this for years, as you well know. I just don't like her to know all the details, that's all. She worries that things might get out of hand, you know?” Randall nodded his understanding.

  “Yeah,” he said knowingly. “Women can get a bit funny about things like that, can't they?” Both men, facing forward simply nodded slowly in unison.

  Randall slid the compact, matt black weapon into a carrier bag which he pushed right back under his driving seat and drove back carefully. The last thing he needed was to get a tug from an over zealous copper for speeding. Now, he just needed to put his faith in his usual good fortune and find the victim of his plan. It may take many weeks. That night, he took Samantha to one side and told her of his intentions. She readily agreed, eager to exact her revenge.

  It was almost three weeks later that Randall had a break. It was close to midnight and he was in the lower end of Wardour Street, close to Leicester Square having just collected a payment from one of the small, all-night shops that Harris had on his books. As he walked back up and approached Gerard Street, he saw the man he knew as Mark emerging from one of the Chinese restaurants on the edge of Chinatown. Randall quickly dived into a shop doorway and watched. Mark was accompanied by another man and the two headed off up the road. Randall followed at a discreet distance but had to ensure he didn't loose them in the crowds. Even at that time of the night the streets were heaving with people in the run-up to Christmas. The two men walked casually across Shaftesbury Avenue, still chatting to each other and into the heart of Soho. Further along Wardour Street, they turned right and entered the Cappuccino strip show bar in Bateman Street. Randall knew Cliff, the doorman and went across to him.

  “Alright, Cliff?” he said, shaking the man's hand.

  “Been quite a busy night, Al,” he replied. “We've had loads in tonight, spending good money as well.” Randall just nodded.

  “The two that have just gone in, mate,” he said. “Are they regulars?”

  “I think I might have seen one of them in here before, but I can't be certain,” he replied. “Why? Is there a problem with them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, concerned about any possible problems. He wanted to have some advance warning if either of the two customers were likely to cause trouble. There was a baseball bat standing in the shadows of the corner to the entrance that Cliff could utilise if the situation called for it. Randall didn't know how much he could safely tell the man without incriminating himself and so opted for a lesser version of the truth.

  “I'm sure that one of them bounced us for quite a bit of money a few weeks back,” he lied convincingly. “I'm going to nip back to Silk's and have a word with Lenny. I might drop back here a bit later if I need to have a chat with them, know what I mean, Cliff? ” Cliff assured him that he knew exactly what was meant and that he would keep an eye on the two men.

  “One more thing, Cliff,” Randall continued, “just in case you're asked at some point in the future, I've never come looking for this fella, that alright, mate?”

  “Yeah, no probs, Al. You take care.”

  Randall ran all the way back and brushed past Rocky on the door, headed for the staircase.

  “Where's the bloody fire?” Rocky shouted at Randall's disappearing back as he went headlong down the stairs. Rushing into the office without bothering to knock, he found Lenny Harris sitting back in his leather captain's chair with his feet on the desk, reading a copy of Sporting Life, a cigar hanging loosely from his lips. Lenny Harris loved to have a bet on the horses. He looked up in surprise as Randall came barging in, out of breath from the long run.

  Randall closed the door to the office and leaned his back against it.

  “Fuckin' 'ell, son!” Harris exclaimed, dropping his feet heavily to the floor, his bushy eyebrows almost reaching his receding hairline. “You got some angry 'usband on yer Daily Mail?” Harris was from the East End and often reverted to using his native Cockney rhyming slang.

  “Nothing like that, Len, nobody on my tail.” Randall replied between breaths. “But something urgent has cropped up and I've got to leave Rocky on the door for the rest of the night. Will that be alright, mate?” Harris knew that Randall wouldn't ask for time off unless it really was absolutely necessary and so immediately, although begrudgingly consented to the request. “Oh, and I'm going to need to take Samantha with me. It really is necessary, Len, I promise you.”

  “Fuck me, Alan,” his governor responded. “Why don't I just give you the shirt of me fuckin' back an' all?” Randall laughed as he moved across the floor and took Samantha by the arm and whispered to her.

  “Come with me now,” he instructed her with urgency. “I'm pretty certain that I've found Mark but want you to have a look at him to make sure.” She immediately put her drink down and followed him upstairs. Rocky nodded is assent when Randal
l went past him, asking him to cover the door. Samantha waited in the foyer for him.

  It took him just over five minutes at a steady jog to reach his car in Soho Square. Three minutes later, he stopped outside Silk's and she jumped into the passenger seat. He pulled sharply away and they sped round to the strip club. He parked with the engine running in Bateman Street with the Cappuccino Club in clear view. Cliff glanced across and saw him there. He nodded to let Randall know he had seen him there. It was over an hour later that he saw Cliff briefly raise a hand into the air while looking in his direction. Randall readied himself. Mark came out of the club with his colleague and they both stood on the kerb chatting, the other man donning a pair of leather gloves. Randall nudged Samantha's arm and nodded in the direction of the two men.

  “Is that the bloke you saw with Carla?” he enquired.

  “Yes, that's definitely him. I saw him very clearly as he put his head out of the window,” she replied.

  “You're absolutely certain?”

  “Oh yes. Certain!”