The Welshman was thrown by the absurdity of the question and by the fact that the detective sergeant seemed perfectly serious when he asked it.
‘You can’t just arrest me. You ’ave to ’ave a charge!’
‘Alright, then. How about failure to comply with the Immigration Hotel Records Order, 1972? Do you think we can make that one stick, Detective Constable Waters?’
Waters held the register a little higher.
‘I think we’ve got him banged to rights, Sarge.’
‘And I think you’re all effing crazy, every last one of you.’
Smith’s eyes were firmly back on Williams now.
‘It’s a stressful job at times, just like your own. You’ll have to forgive us our moments of light-hearted relief, sir. But it’s decision time now. Either you come with me of your own volition to Kings Lake or I use the full weight of the law and Detective Constable Murray to compel you to do so.’
The thin man stared at the door for some time after the four of them had left the bar of The Queens Arms. There hadn’t been a fight in the end, and no-one had been arrested or handcuffed. Then he looked around the long, low room, with its empty tables and chairs, and its dusty, shadowy corners. Had he once had a dream like this, having an entire pub to himself? It was difficult to know because dreams are difficult to remember.
There was silence for a while, and then the sound of steps coming down the stairs. He stared next at the door behind the bar, and when it opened the woman detective appeared. She was quite tall and good-looking, and smartly dressed – funny to think of her being the boss of them all but she was and he could see why.
She looked around the bar, and then said to him, ‘Have they all gone?’
He nodded, astonished to find that he had a part in all this, even though it wasn’t as yet a speaking one. Then she moved quickly through the bar and went out of the same door as the men. It was quiet again, quiet enough to hear the wind outside, and he thought about the winter coming and how cold it got on the boat sometimes.
Quiet inside, very quiet now. A creak upstairs, someone moving about. He got down from the barstool, lifted the old-fashioned flap and walked through the gap. He was behind the bar now, and the world looked a little different from here. He tried to imagine himself sitting on the barstool, and Peter Vince and Johnny Fisher over there in the usual snug by the window. He tried to imagine a log fire in the grate on a chilly December night, and everyone being friends.
He pushed the button on the till as he had seen Mark Williams do hundreds of times, and sure enough it flew open – there was money in the tray, not much, probably just the float as Williams called it. A few notes, a few one and two pound coins.
‘Have you seen Marjorie?’
He jumped at the sound of the voice. The policewoman must have left the stairs door open, and now the other one was here, the one who lived upstairs. She was looking at him, expecting an answer. He shook his head.
‘Well, when you do, tell her we’re not opening today. Put a sign on the door or something. And you can cash up if there’s been any business today.’
Then she was gone, closing the door behind her. He listened to her footsteps going slowly back up the stairs. That was her, the famous singer, famous actress as well, probably… There are pictures of her on the wall, look, when she was a lot younger. Very beautiful. She had never spoken to him before today, but now she thought that he worked here.
He closed the till, took a clean pint glass from the rack beneath the bar and used the hand-pump to fill it with his real ale of choice. When it was done, he held the liquid up to the light from the window. It was pale amber, golden as a field of ripe barley, and perfectly clear. Cheers, everyone.
Chapter Thirty Two
In one of those odd twists that are everywhere if one has the eyes to see them, it came back to the Kray twins. In the 1960s they had become celebrities, mainly because they had used some of their ill-gotten gains to buy nightclubs in the West End – nightclubs in which the brothers were photographed by the likes of David Bailey with their arms around women like Judy Garland and Diana Dors, and men like Frank Sinatra. In 1969 their long reign of intimidation and violence came to an end, but the mystique, if one might call it such, lingered on into the 1970s. Other nightclubs were still owned and frequented by men with dirty money, and other lesser celebrities from the worlds of entertainment, business and even politics were still drawn to them and the heady scent of a little danger.
One night in 1971, at The Cellar Club in Chelsea, Julie Shapiro met Frankie Jacobs. It probably wasn’t love at first sight, but it was something. He was thirty five, wealthy and with an air of invincibility; fifteen years in the business and yet to see the inside of a prison cell. She was ten years younger, a famous and beautiful face, successful in her own right and not afraid of him – or if she was, she never let it show.
Detective Chief Inspector Reeve had said to her, ‘To be absolutely clear, Julie, you had an affair with him?’
Such a little word, isn’t it, she had said, and so long ago. Technically, she said, it had to be that because he was married, and with children, too, but they were together for several months, and it was no secret. There had been photographs, their names together in gossip columns, they went to parties and nightclubs, and there had never been any worries about his wife. Those were strange and new times – the 1960s had changed everything, hadn’t they?
Reeve said, ‘How did your relationship with Jacobs come to an end?’
After a long, long pause, Julie Shapiro had answered, ‘Badly.’
‘Can you tell us any more about that? We need to understand what lay behind the threats that Bernard Sokoloff was making.’
We could, Smith had thought at that moment, just ask her to read aloud the juicy bits from the papers over there on the table. Ten to one, Frankie Jacobs isn’t getting cross because he had a fling with a pop star forty five years ago and now she wants to tell the world about it. The world won’t give a toss about that, ma’am. There’s more to it.
‘Some of this is very personal and very painful, Inspector. I see no need to go into the fine detail, if I’m honest. I ended up in some very dark places, doing things that I am not proud of… Have you ever wondered why I never recorded again, after 1971?’
Reeve had glanced at Smith with an awkward expression – clearly this was not a question on which she had pondered at great length; he shrugged and made it obvious that she was on her own with that one.
‘Er, no, not directly, but I can see how this might all be related. I have to say again, Julie, that we do need to understand fully why Bernard Sokoloff made threats to you if you published your memoirs. If he was doing so on behalf of Mr Jacobs – and I must stress that is only one possibility – why is Mr Jacobs making such threats? Have you written things which will embarrass him? Things that might incriminate him?’
Better, ma’am. Julie Shapiro had blinked and swallowed at that, before she saying, ‘I don’t think for a moment that Frankie Jacobs is easily embarrassed…’ And that was a pretty decent answer to the question, under the circumstances.
Alison Reeve had pushed on with it from there, as one must, and, still without going into the “fine detail” as she had called it earlier, Julie Shapiro told them about those parties, the ones that Frankie had organised in clubs, apartments and private homes across London. Whatever you can imagine, she said, it was going on, and whoever was anyone in that scene turned up at them sooner or later. She had looked at them both then, and Smith had understood before Reeve.
He said, ‘People with names that we might still recognise today, Julie?’
‘Yes. Several of them. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
Oh, he probably would… This had to be why Frankie Jacobs had got involved. He wasn’t only protecting his own reputation – it was even possible that he was being leaned on a little himself to make this go away.
Reeve said, ‘We understand that this is a deli
cate matter, then, Miss Sha-’
‘I’m not going to say who, if that’s what you’re after. These lawyers have made that very clear. I know you are the police but I’m not saying, not until I’ve spoken to them. Sorry.’
At that moment she was afraid, and there was a danger that she would think twice about continuing to cooperate. Reeve sensed it and backed off – she explained that they were going to take Mark back to Kings Lake so that he could explain more fully his own contact with Bernard Sokoloff, and she said that it would be a good idea for Julie Shapiro to make contact with those lawyers because, inevitably, there would be more questions to come.
Williams was taken straight to Interview Suite One. Smith asked who the duty solicitor was, and when he was told that it was Andrew Brown, he suggested alerting him so that there would be as little delay as possible – Mark Williams might get to that point today. Before anyone began the interview – and Smith recognised that with a new detective inspector in place, no assumptions could be made now – they all needed to be updated on what had taken place in Essex and Surrey while they had been at work in Norfolk.
Sergeant Fuller had reported that Nicholas Jacobs had been cooperative. Yes, Bernard Sokoloff had known his, Jacobs’, father, and they had all met socially a number of times since the business had been set up ten years ago. Fuller had done a thorough job, though, and had established that Bernard and Frankie Jacobs had, in fact, known each other before that – they had known each other before Bernard had known Nicholas. It was Terek who raised the possibility that at least half and maybe all of the money for the Beech Green health club, in that case, had come from Frankie Jacobs – in which case, Sokoloff was beholden to Jacobs senior. But the significant point was that they had known each other for a long time.
DCI Jacqueline Lilley and her DI – name as yet unknown – had met with a somewhat different reception after their drive through the leafy lanes of Surrey. At first they were told that Mr Jacobs was too unwell to see them that morning, and maybe any other morning. Mrs Lilley had not been put off; she then redirected her inquiries into the nature of the illness. When she was told that Mr Jacobs suffered from Parkinsons disease, she asked for the name of his general practitioner. At that point there had been discussions behind closed doors in another part of the very large house, and then they had been taken to see Mr Jacobs after all.
DCI Lilley had reported that Jacobs almost certainly did suffer from Parkinsons. He appeared frail – able to walk unaided but not very far. Mentally, however, even though he was eighty years of age, she found him, in her own words, “sharp as a filleting knife, and still a bit scary”. At no time during the interview was Jacobs left alone with the detectives conducting it; a large man, who Lilley thought was a bodyguard dressed as a nurse, remained throughout, and a young woman in a business suit was also present much of the time. She claimed to be Frankie Jacobs’ granddaughter, and a subsequent check had ascertained that she was. The family business, whatever it was these days, was alive and well.
Smith took a look at Jacqueline Lilley’s report on screen while Terek and Reeve talked everyone through the morning’s developments. It was lengthy but concise and remarkably detailed – when on earth had she found the time to write it? All across the force, there were outstanding people like her doing a remarkable job.
But never mind all that. Lilley’s conclusions seemed to be that Frankie Jacobs was a past master at being questioned by clever police officers and at appearing to be cooperative. Yes, of course he’d known Bernie Sokoloff, what a terrible business. How long had he known him? Years and years. When did he last see him? Must be months ago, a big do at the health club. Was she into that sort of thing? He could arrange a bit of a discount for such a hard-working public servant, with a shark-like smile that showed he still had most of his teeth. So when did you last speak to Bernard Sokoloff on the telephone, Mr Jacobs? Difficult to say. Supposed to have retired years ago but every day someone wants something, and it keeps the old brain ticking over… Bernard Sokoloff on the telephone, Mr Jacobs? Hard to say. He used to ring me occasionally but the old memory isn’t what it was, and all the bloody pills they give you for this disease, they don’t help… But Bernie was a good lad. What a terrible business.
The report gave Smith the picture, perfectly. There was a note at the end, in Jacqueline Lilley’s words, but someone else at her instruction had looked into Frankie Jacobs’ business history. He owned the freeholds to a number of significant properties in central London, and had done so for between twenty and thirty years. In the 1980s and 1990s, before the days of money-laundering legislation, he had invested wisely. His income was from renting and leasing out these properties. The increase in capital value, of course, had been huge – Francis Jacobs was a very rich man indeed, and nowadays, to all intents and purposes, a respectable one.
Alison Reeve said, ‘I’ve spoken briefly to DCI Lilley this morning. As you know, the plan was not to mention Jacobs’ connection to Julie Shapiro on the first visit. Not doing so gives a reason to go back and annoy him some more. We’re preparing the next set of questions but it makes sense for us to interview Mark Williams before that. He knows more than he’s told us yet, and that might include him being able to implicate Frankie Jacobs. I’m going to interview him now, and DC, I want you in there as well. Williams has really taken a shine to you.’
Terek was surprised, and it was obvious to others as well as Smith that she had not informed him of that decision – he had been expecting to be the other half of the interviewing team. Then Reeve came over to Smith, the briefing having apparently ended, and said ‘Fifteen minutes, alright?’ He nodded and she left the room. She would go to alert Superintendent Allen that there were, potentially, public figures involved in the case now, and within a very few minutes phones would be ringing on some large and very tidy desks in Norwich.
Detective Inspector Terek was organising everyone else. He went first to Wilson’s team of four and spoke to them; now that the London end was being handled entirely by London detectives, they would be reassigned either to routine checks on this case or possibly to other matters entirely.
Waters was doing dates, times and places for the events of the morning, ready for Smith to sign off, and Serena and John Murray were at their own stations – best to let Terek direct them this morning in view of what had just taken place.
He saw Murray glance up at him, with a look that meant something, and then back at his screen. Smith waited but the look didn’t come again, and then Terek was heading over towards Murray’s desk. He leaned in and looked at the screen as Murray spoke to him and pointed. More words were exchanged and then Terek straightened up and said, ‘Well done, John. Fantastic work.’
Serena had heard some of it, and so in a moment the three of them were gathered around Murray’s desk and talking. Through the huddle, Smith caught another look from Murray, a glance of just two or three seconds but one which spoke volumes. It said, among other things, only following orders, you said not to hold anything back from the new DI… And it also said, surely, and this is what it will look like one day soon, when you are no longer here.
Two long minutes later, Simon Terek reached Smith’s desk.
‘DC, your lot have come up trumps again. Remember the Toyota Hilux?’
‘Yes, on the video of the car park at the hotel. What’s happened?’
‘John did the routine check. There are plenty about but one of them is registered to a Peter Vince who owns a garage in Wells. John tells me that that name has already come up in the investigation. We can’t say it’s that particular Hilux, obviously, but it’s a bit of a-’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Yes.’
Smith was already processing that, wondering how it could be worked into the coming interview, but he ought to say something to the detective inspector, too.
‘Any thoughts about the interview, sir? Anything you’d like me to cover?’
The smile told all – Smith’s offeri
ng had been unnecessary – but Terek said, ‘Do you like Williams for this? Did he kill Sokoloff?’
As he considered the answer, Smith thought back one week to the day, to meeting Terek as the new DI and the drive out to Barnham Staithe; how quickly time moves us on to unexpected destinations, how its tides, created by invisible forces, come and go in all our lives.
Smith said, ‘We’ve established opportunity and motive. But the question is a funny one, when you think about it. At which point exactly was Bernard Sokoloff killed? When he was run over? No, he was still alive. When he was put into the boat that we have not found? When they dropped him over the side? He almost certainly managed to swim for a while, or at least to stay afloat. Not like pulling a trigger, is it?’
‘I agree. And another thing. If Williams was involved, he wasn’t alone. There is too much work in it for one man. Or woman. So, there you are, DC. You asked what I’d want to cover in the interview, and that’s something. Is Williams covering up for someone? If he was involved in it, is he willing to carry the whole can?’
The two of them were thinking along similar lines. Terek wished him good luck, and that was not a formality or a politeness. The interviewer carries the expectations and hopes of every officer who has worked on a case. A one or two-hour confrontation in front of the camera and the microphone can be the culmination of hundreds of hours of meticulous work by dozens of other officers. One way or another, they are all watching and waiting.
Reeve had completed all the formalities, and she had also taken Mark Williams back through the answers he had given in previous interviews. There are good reasons for doing it this way – the interviewee cannot complain that he is unable to recall what he said yesterday or last week if he was reminded of it only ten minutes ago. Of course, it’s only a problem if he was lying in the first instance, anyway; we easily fail to remember the lies we have told but the truth is much harder to forget. Once again, Williams had said the he didn’t require a solicitor, but the call to Andrew Brown had been made, and no-one would bet Smith a fiver that he would not be called in at some point in the afternoon.
Time and Tide Page 30
