‘I told yer, we’re taking yer to see the boss,’ the driver replied.
‘An’ he lives up an alley – this kingpin of crime – does he?’
‘Course ’e don’t. But for yer own protection, we fort it might be better if yer weren’t seen going in froo the front, so yer’ll be entering the premises by what yer might call the tradesmen’s entrance.’
Or maybe I won’t be enterin’ the premises at all, Woodend thought.
Because maybe they’d never intended to take him to their boss.
Perhaps, all along, their plan had been to beat the crap out of him, and they simply hadn’t wanted to do it under the watchful eyes of the people of Balaclava Street.
He could see another main road at the end of the alley, but before they reached it the driver turned again, into an even smaller alley – and this time a dead end.
He would deal with the driver first, Woodend quickly decided – a forceful hand to the back of the head should be enough to smash his face down into the steering wheel. And at the same time, he’d see what damage he could do to Scarface with his right elbow.
‘Relax,’ Scarface said, reading the signals. ‘If we was planning to give yer a going over, we wouldn’t ’ave given yer time to fink about it.’
The driver braked in front of a door which had the words ‘Las Vegas Club, Staff Only’ painted on it.
‘We’re there,’ he said.
Scarface got out of the van, and held the door open for Woodend with all the grace of a professional chauffeur. Then, when the sergeant had climbed out himself, he slid back into the van.
‘Won’t you be comin’ with me?’ Woodend asked.
‘We’d like to, but we just ain’t got the time,’ Scarface told him. ‘Not wiv a winder-cleaning business to run.’
Woodend watched the van as it reversed back to the alley. He was sweating, he realized, but then – in his situation – who wouldn’t be?
He opened the back door to the club, and stepped into a long narrow corridor. There were further unmarked doors on either side of him, but he kept on walking until he reached the double doors at the end. Pushing them open, he found himself in a large room with a dance floor at one end and a bar at the other.
Most nightclubs didn’t look up to much in the harsh light of day, Woodend thought. Stripped of their subdued lighting, they lost their glamour and became merely seedy. But that wasn’t the case here, because this club didn’t just create the illusion of being expensive and sophisticated – it actually was both those things.
‘Welcome to the Las Vegas,’ said a voice from across the room.
The man who had spoken the words was sitting at a table in the centre of the room. The table itself was piled high with banknotes – most of them fivers – and he appeared to be in the process of counting them.
‘You’ll be Toby Burroughs,’ Woodend said.
‘That’s right,’ the other man agreed. ‘Why don’t yer come and join me?’
Toby Burroughs was older than Ron Smithers by a good ten years, Woodend decided as he walked across the room. He was shorter, too – by a good three inches.
Even so, in a fight between the two of them, the sergeant thought he would have put his money on Burroughs. Smithers, it seemed to him, had become a hard man through training and self-discipline, but his rival gave off an aura of having emerged from the womb hard. And Woodend couldn’t fail to note that while Smithers had surrounded himself with his heavies, Burroughs – despite all the money on the table – seemed to be quite alone.
‘Take a seat, Sergeant,’ Burroughs said amiably.
Woodend sat. There had to be at least a thousand pounds resting on the table, he calculated.
‘Interestin’ name that you’ve given this club of yours,’ he said.
‘Yes, it is, ain’t it?’ Burroughs agreed.
‘What does it mean?’
Burroughs gave him a long, hard, calculating look. ‘Are yer asking me that because yer really want to know the answer – or just ’cos yer shitting yer pants so much that yer saying the first words wot come into yer head?’
Woodend smiled. ‘I might have been shittin’ my pants a few minutes ago,’ he admitted, ‘but that stopped the moment your lads drove off.’
Burroughs nodded. ‘It’s a wise man ’oo knows when there’s no need to be scared, and an even wiser ’oo knows when he should be,’ he said. ‘In answer to yer question, Sergeant, I used to call this place the Havana Club, after Havana in Cuba, because, for a gambler, that’s where the real action is.’
‘Then why did you change it?’
‘Because when the government of Cuba falls – and it will fall, given time – people will start looking round for a new gambling capital of the world.’
‘An’ you think that will be this Las Vegas place?’
‘I do. It don’t look much at the moment – it’s nuffink but a small town wiv a few casinos, in the middle of the desert – but in a few years it’ll be the business.’
‘So that’s why you’ve changed the name of your club now?’ Woodend asked. ‘Because you like to associate yourself with winners very early on in the game?’
‘Correct,’ Burroughs concurred. ‘It’s been by associating wiv winners early on that I’ve managed to stay on top.’ He paused for a second or two, then added, ‘Have yer been to see Ron Smithers?’
It wasn’t a really a question, and Woodend didn’t even bother to pretend that he thought it was.
Instead, he said, ‘You seem to be very well informed.’
‘Yes, I am well informed,’ Burroughs agreed easily. ‘That’s anuvver reason I’m still on top.’ He paused for a second time. ‘Listen, Sergeant, if yer on Greyhound Ron’s payroll, that’s a matter between you and him, and yer’ll get no complaints about it from me. But if that is how it is, I’d like to know about it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because this is my city, and I need to be told wot’s going on.’
‘Your city,’ Woodend mused. ‘I can think of any number of people who might challenge that – an’ Ron Smithers is certainly one of them.’
‘I like to fink of London as a pie,’ Burroughs said, philosophically. ‘A very big pie – big enough for everybody who wants a slice to ’ave one. But I’m the one wiv the serving knife – so I’m the one who decides ’ow big each slice will be. For the moment, Ron’s being reasonable about the size of his slice – but if ’e ever starts getting greedy, yer’ll soon see who’s the real boss.’
Maybe he was right, Woodend thought.
Or maybe, like so many other dictators throughout history, he was over-estimating his own power.
‘Are yer in Ron’s pocket?’ Burroughs asked.
‘No,’ Woodend said.
‘Then what was the purpose of yer visit to ’is ratty little pub?’
‘I went to see him about a case that I’m investigatin’.’
‘And what case was that?’
‘I really don’t think that’s anythin’ to do with you.’
Burroughs nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he agreed. ‘It’s your business, not mine. But if I ’ad to put money on it, I’d be willing to bet it was about the Wally Booth case.’
‘No comment,’ Woodend said.
‘Like I told yer, it’s your business.’
‘Can I ask you a question now?’ Woodend asked.
Burroughs thought about it. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said finally.
‘Do you know anythin’ about the murder of a coloured girl on Mitre Street, the night before last?’
Burroughs’s eyes hardened. ‘Now why would yer want ter ask me about that?’ he demanded.
Because Ron Smithers says you’re an old-fashioned gangster who still carries a razor around in his pocket, Woodend thought.
‘Because, as this is your city, I thought that you might have heard somethin’,’ he said aloud.
‘Are yer on that case as well?’ Burroughs asked.
‘Not any more.’
‘Meanin’ that I was on it, but now I’ve been reassigned.’
‘So if yer ain’t involved in that particular case no more, why are yer still poking yer big nose into it?’
I could lie, Woodend thought – but why should I?
‘From what I learned about her while I was still on the case, I’ve come to the conclusion that Pearl Jones was a really nice kid – a really good kid,’ he said. ‘And I’d like to see whoever killed her hangin’ from the end of a rope.’
Burroughs nodded seriously. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself,’ he said. ‘I don’t like violence.’
Woodend laughed. He didn’t mean to do it, but he simply couldn’t stop himself.
‘You don’t like violence?’ he repeated, incredulously.
‘That’s right.’
‘But from what I’ve heard, your entire empire is built on violence.’
‘That was business,’ Burroughs said crisply. ‘I never cut up nobody ’oo wouldn’t have cut up me first, if ’e’d been given the chance. And I’ve always kept the civilians out of it.’
‘Unless they didn’t give you exactly what you wanted, exactly when you wanted it,’ Woodend said sceptically.
‘Unless they got in the way of my business plans,’ Burroughs agreed. ‘But to get back to the point, Sergeant, I don’t know who killed this coloured girl of yours – but if I did, I’d tell yer.’
He could be telling the truth or he could be lying through his teeth, Woodend thought – and there was no way he could tell which it was.
There was the hoot of a car horn being sounded outside the front door.
‘That’ll be yer lift, on ’is way round to the back to pick yer up,’ Burroughs said.
‘Timed it just nicely, hasn’t he?’ Woodend asked.
‘Which means yer can leave now,’ Burroughs continued, with the same arrogant dismissal to his tone that Greyhound Ron Smithers had displayed earlier.
Woodend stood up, and walked over to the double doors.
‘One more question,’ he said, as he was pushing them open. ‘Do you still carry a razor, Mr Burroughs?’
Burroughs smiled – and it was probably the most frightening smile that Woodend had ever seen in his life.
‘Cross me, and yer’ll soon find out,’ the gangster said.
DCI Bentley had probably gone straight from his half-day conference to a heavy lunch with some other members of the top brass – a lunch which would undoubtedly be paid for out of the Met’s crime-fighting budget. Cotteral had abandoned his experiment with rubber bands in a favour of a construction project involving paper clips, then had abandoned that too, and gone out for a pint.
Left alone in the office, Woodend chain-smoked, and did his best to analyse the day’s events.
‘There were a lot of questions I needed to ask myself after that meeting with Toby Burroughs,’ Woodend told Monika Paniatowski.
‘And the first one was whether Burroughs was behind that late-night phone call which warned you off investigating the Pearl Jones murder?’ Monika guessed.
‘Exactly,’ Woodend agreed. ‘An’ the more I thought about it, the more my head hurt. On the one hand, you see, it was perfectly possible that Burroughs hadn’t really wanted to see me at all – that he’d only used seein’ me as a pretext to get me away from Balaclava Street, where there was a danger I might learn more about the murder.’
‘But, on the other hand, a man as resourceful as Burroughs seems to have been could have come up with any number of other pretexts – none of which involved him directly,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Just so. But if the meetin’ hadn’t been a pretext, then what the hell had it been?’
‘He said he wanted to know if you were working for Greyhound Ron.’
‘I know that’s what he said, but how likely was it that an important criminal like him would take a personal interest in whether or not a low-rankin’ policeman was takin’ the occasional bribe from one his rivals?’
‘Not likely at all,’ Paniatowski admitted. ‘So what was the real reason for the meeting?’
‘Pardon?’ Woodend said, as if he hadn’t heard.
‘You did eventually find out why he wanted to see you, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes, it was obvious, once all the other bits of the jigsaw had slotted into place.’
Paniatowski sighed. ‘So tell me?’
Woodend chuckled. ‘Not yet. A good tale’s a bit like a good meal – if you serve bits of it out of order, you spoil the taste of the whole thing.’
‘There are times when I could kill you, Charlie,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Aye, I can be annoyin’ on occasion,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Anyway, while I was sittin’ there, tryin’ to make sense of it all, the phone rang. An’ who do you think it was?’
Paniatowski sighed again – even more heavily this time. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Who was it?’
‘It was a voice from the past,’ Woodend told her.
‘Charlie?’ said the vaguely familiar voice at the other end of the line.
‘Yes?’
‘Arthur Cathcart here.’
‘Oh, hello, sir.’
Woodend had caught sight of Major Cathcart – now Commander Cathcart – from time to time, and they’d even exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries when they’d happened to meet accidentally – but it must have been at least two years, he thought, since they’d had anything that could have passed as a conversation.
‘I think we need to have a talk,’ Cathcart said.
‘All right,’ Woodend agreed, mystified.
‘But not over the phone. It should be done face-to-face.’
‘Would you like me to come up to your office, sir?’
‘No!’ Cathcart said emphatically. ‘No,’ he repeated, more softly this time. ‘I think it would probably be better, given the nature of what needs to be said, if we met somewhere not too closely connected to the Job.’
‘A pub?’ Woodend suggested.
‘That would certainly be more suitable,’ Cathcart agreed. ‘Or better yet, why not come to my place for Sunday lunch?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Woodend said, not certain he had heard the commander correctly.
‘We throw a buffet-lunch party most Sundays,’ Cathcart said. ‘It’s very informal, and it’s really quite a jolly crowd.’
‘Whenever I have the opportunity, I like to spend my Sundays with my wife,’ Woodend said.
‘It’s perfectly understandable that you would,’ Cathcart agreed. ‘And, naturally, when I invited you, I was also inviting her.’
‘I’m not sure …’ Woodend began.
‘We’re old comrades-in-arms, Charlie,’ Cathcart reminded him. ‘And really, I’m quite ashamed of the way I’ve been neglecting you since we were demobbed.’
‘I never expected you to …’
‘I mean to say, I’ve never even met your wife. Joan, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’ve never met mine.’
‘Even so …’
‘What’s the matter? Do you think it will make you feel uncomfortable to be rubbing shoulders with the brass?’
‘The thought had occurred to me,’ Woodend admitted.
Cathcart laughed. ‘Well, you needn’t worry on that score, Charlie. Sundays are part of my other life – the part that doesn’t involve police work. In fact, you’ll be the first copper I’ve ever invited.’
‘It’s very kind of you, sir …’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘I’ll have to ask Joan.’
‘And if she’s happy with the idea, can I take it as a yes then?’
‘I suppose you can,’ Woodend said cautiously.
‘Jolly good! So I’ll look forward to seeing you both on Sunday,’ Cathcart said.
And then he hung up.
Twelve
It was a quarter to four when DCI Bentley finally returned to the office. Once inside, he walk
ed straight over to Woodend’s desk with the careful steps of a man who was sober enough to know that he’d had too much to drink, but drunk enough to believe he could successfully conceal the fact from other people.
‘How’s your murder investigation going, Charlie?’ he asked with unaccustomed bonhomie.
How’s yours going, you fat idle bastard? Woodend thought.
‘I’m makin’ some progress, sir,’ he lied.
Bentley nodded his head sagely, as if to acknowledge having just heard some profound statement from his sergeant.
‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Excellent, in fact. You know, Charlie, you and me, we may have had our differences in the past, but I still think that you’ve got the makings of a bloody good copper in you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Woodend said.
Though he was only too well aware that, as the effects of the drink began to wear off, Bentley’s newly discovered golden opinion of him would start to fade away, too.
‘There’s just … just one thing,’ Charlie,’ Bentley continued, opening and closing his eyes in an effort to make them focus properly.
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘What’s what?’ Bentley asked, puzzled.
‘The “just one thing”, sir.’
‘Oh, yes. That. Over lunch, I had time for a few quick words with one of the directors of the brewery.’
‘Which brewery?’
‘You know! It’s the … the …’ Bentley said, as he tried to recall the name, and failed. ‘The one that owns that pub, the … whatever the devil it’s called.’
‘The Waterman’s Arms?’ Woodend suggested.
‘That’s right, I knew it was something like that. The Waterman’s Arms.’ Bentley paused to draw a few shallow breaths, then continued. ‘Apparently, according to this chap, the place is still closed down.’
‘Well, it is the scene of a crime, sir,’ Woodend pointed out.
‘It … it may, as you say, be the scene of crime, but keeping it closed is costing the brewery a lot of money. They don’t like that. And … and there’s no reason why they should.’ Bentley paused again, this time to collect his thoughts. ‘Is there any reason why the Waterman’s Arms shouldn’t re-open?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Woodend said.
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