by John Lawton
Troy sensed a dropped brick, one Steerforth would have a little difficulty picking up.
‘He’s on trial for treason. You won’t be reading about it in the papers, and maybe you never will. It’s what they call in camera. Classified. A secret.’
‘Then I’m glad you haven’t told me.’
The explosion forced Troy to hold the receiver away from his ear. Troy was not wholly certain what he was saying, but ‘little gobshite’, and ‘busted back to walking the fuckin’ beat’ seemed to be prevalent. When he’d stopped Troy said, ‘I’ve an ongoing murder investigation, sir. If you’ve had Redburn in custody since that day at the Tea Rooms, then he’s of no further interest to me, but while you’re on the line perhaps you could tell me whether you have any interest in Lord Carsington . . .’
‘Stay away from him!’
‘. . . Geoffrey Trench . . .’
‘Aaaaaaaghhh!’
‘. . . Or Charles Lockett?’
Steerforth slammed the phone down.
§ 173
Troy had got home. Rummaged in the dark place under the sink for a bottle of his dad’s vintage claret. It had been a shitty day. It was about to get shittier. The telephone rang. He picked it up, held the bottle in his right hand, corkscrew still in cork, and hoped to get rid of whoever it was quickly.
‘I have a long-distance call for you from Burnham-on-Crouch, person to person, Frederick Troy.’
‘That’s me,’ said Troy, expecting his old pal Charlie.
But it wasn’t.
‘Go ahead, caller.’
‘It’s me, Walter Stilton.’
‘Hello, Walter.’
‘I got the bollocking of a lifetime today.’
Troy set the bottle down, and prepared to wait.
‘Steerforth?’
‘Aye. Steerforth.’
‘I’m sorry, Walter. It couldn’t be helped. It’s Murder Squad business now – official. It’s out of Steerforth’s hands, but I’d no idea he’d take it out on you.’
‘I’m used to it.’
Troy waited for the but.
‘But . . . it won’t stop there. I was thinkin’ . . . put a bit of space between yourself and our Kitty.’
‘Walter, do you really think that’s necessary?’
‘He’s a malicious little sod. If you weren’t trespassing on his turf at the Russian caff you are now. He’s capable of having you watched. If he gets the bit between his teeth, he’ll find the manpower and he’ll do it.’
‘Does he have someone watching Chesham Place?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because I intend to ask Onions to put someone there in the morning. It would be a farce if we doubled up. Two coppers watching each other.’
‘Like I say, I don’t know, and I won’t ask. But if any of his blokes see you and Kitty together and Steerforth adds her to his list of coppers he wants vetted . . . need I say more?’
‘But will she listen to me?’
‘I’m her father . . . she sure as hell won’t listen to me. Hold her at arm’s length for a bit. I’m not sayin’ dump her – she’d hate that –just find a convenient lie that stops you seeing her till this is over.’
It suited too well. A convenient lie. It was as though some guiding hand was slotting pieces into place for him. Zette and Kitty and a revolving door. Part of him did not wish to do it, just as much of him could not quite believe his luck.
§ 174
Onions had appeared in Troy’s office again, puffing on a Woodbine.
‘I’m hearing nowt.’
‘There’s not a lot to tell you.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
Onions parked himself by the fireplace, flicking ash into the grate. Troy told him, omitting the chance encounter with Carsington.
‘D’ye mean to see ’em again. Up the ante next time?’
‘I’d rather just put a watch on them. I took Lockett by surprise and for some reason Trench was mildly entertained by the whole thing. Next time they’ll want their brief in the room. No, I’ll stay clear of them, but I want them watched. Anyone could move around like a wraith in an air-raid. It’s the perfect cover. The only way to approach this is to put a man on each of their houses.’
Onions pinched the end of his cigarette, dropped it back in the packet for later.
‘I can’t spare the men for what you’re asking. Three watches at once? And on nothing more than a hunch?’
‘It’s one of them. I know it.’
Onions wasn’t having this.
‘Like I said – a hunch. It could be any one of them or none of them.’
‘I’d plump for Carsington.’
Onions wasn’t having this either.
‘Only ’cos you’ve crossed swords with him before. You said yourself . . . Lockett might be playing the fool just for you, and Trench is as smooth as they come. Birds off the trees and all that malarkey. He could have got back to London from his constituency in the middle of the night for the June and August dates. Lockett doesn’t know where he was on either date. And they’ve neither of them got anything I’d call a shred of an alibi for the one night we know for certain it’s murder.’
‘Perhaps Carsington hasn’t either?’
‘Mebbe, mebbe not.’
‘Let me talk to him.’
‘No.’
‘Then give me Thomson and Gutteridge to watch the houses.’
‘I can’t do it. I can’t justify the resources. Not the pickle we’re in now. Every suspicious body the ARP call us out. Like you said an air-raid is perfect cover. Bound to be a few old scores settled. And there’s bodies turning up all over the place.’
‘Stan . . . it’s usually me who turns out for them. I’m handling two or three a day right now.’
‘Then you’ve got your hands full, haven’t you?’
§ 175
It was raining. After another imperious summons to Stanhope Place, mercifully spared sex-in-the-park – ‘rain stopped play’, as he thought of it – another raid banging down around them, the blackout tightly drawn – Troy sat up in bed with a pencil and paper by the light of a reading lamp.
Zette woke.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking a leaf out of your book. I’m trying to perceive a pattern in the numbers.’
‘What numbers?’
‘The dates of the killings.’
‘And can you?’
‘No. 29, 19, 7 and 7. Meaningless to me.’
Zette stretched out an arm languidly and took the sheet from him. Yawned. Rubbed with a fist at one eye and read with the other.
‘There’s a pattern alright. As for meaning . . .’
‘A pattern?’
‘School Matric Maths, Troy!’
‘I was more of a Latin scholar.’
‘God, this is so elementary. They’re all prime numbers. They cannot be divided by any other number but themselves and one.’
‘They can’t?’
‘Try it. Find something that goes into 29 without leaving a few over. 21, on the other hand, is divisible by 7 and 3; 25 by . . . do you see?’
‘Yes. I can see it now. But why do you say it’s meaningless.’
‘For God’s sake Troy . . . if I thought numbers meant something per se I’d have signed up for my father’s gobbledegook classes years ago. “Three, five, seven, a quickstep into heaven.” It’s a pattern. Possibly a random one. Any meaning is a matter of our own interpretation . . . our own projection.’
‘Then let me project this. According to you there is something . . . perfect – I can think of no other word – something “perfect” about a prime number. Something imperfect about fractions. Supposing this chap only goes out to kill on nights that are prime numbers? Supposing only prime numbers meet his sense of perfection?’
‘Supposing he only goes out wearing odd sock? It doesn’t mean anything except to him. Maybe he’s just a nutter?’
‘Oh,’ said Troy. ‘He’s that alright, I’m quite sure he’s tha
t.’
§ 176
They sat at the same oilclothed table in the back room of Nader’s house, drinking tea again.
Nader said, ‘It’s been over a fortnight now. The Luftwaffe haven’t missed a night. How long before Eastenders accept being bombed as a way of life?’
‘Do you think they’re that sanguine?’
‘No, but they’ll say they are. “England can take it.” But how much death can any community take? I attend a funeral every day now.’
‘I look at bodies every day.’
‘You could say that was inherent in the nature of both our occupations. You and I deal in death, in mortality and immortality.’
Troy could not agree with the last part of this. In his experience the dead stayed dead, but he was delighted that Nader had given him the introduction to the pitch he wanted to make – common ground between them was a godsend.
‘Do you not think we might be alike in other ways?’
‘Such as?’
‘We’re roughly the same height. Your hair and eyes are the same colour.’
‘But,’ said Nader, running a finger raspily down the side of his face, ‘I have a beard and you don’t.’
Troy placed a small paper parcel on the table and unwrapped it. He took the contents in his fingers and held it to his chin, fingertips pressed to his cheekbones, just below the ears. Nader laughed out loud.
‘A false beard, Mr Troy? Where did you get that? In a joke shop?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did. The one in Holborn. I bought the spirit gum at the same time.’
‘You mean you intend to masquerade as me?’
‘Lend me your hat and jacket and we’ll see. I have an idea of when our man might strike again. I’ve been able to come up with a set of likely dates. I can’t be certain of any of them, of course – but I am certain the next victim will be a rabbi and that you are next on the list.’
‘You don’t think your “man”, as you put it, will know my father is in hospital?’
‘Unlikely. Or are you saying I should dress as him rather than you?’
‘We couldn’t pad you enough, Mr Troy. You’d have to gain four stones. And I haven’t yet said I’ll let you play me. That is what you intend, isn’t it? To dress as me, and lie in wait?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Such a risk. This man has killed four men.’
‘So far the worst attack has been with a kitchen knife. I think I can handle that, and of course I’ll be expecting him. None of the others were.’
Nader was thinking. Troy did not want Nader to think. He wanted him simply to agree.
‘I can’t help thinking that it’s like trading your life for mine. I couldn’t agree to that.’
‘It would only be that if I died. I’ve no intention of dying.’
‘Suppose I am, suppose I remain, the bait, and you watch over me?’
‘I couldn’t agree to that.’
Nader thought again.
‘Tell me.’
‘We meet here, early evening tomorrow. Discreetly. I won’t leave my car outside. I’ll come in the back, and you should leave by the back. You have somewhere you could go, I take it?’
‘I should think I’m related to half Stepney. I have more aunts than I have fingers to count them.’
‘When the raid starts, and that’s when not if, I think, I’ll go over to the synagogue and pretend to be clearing up. If I’m right . . . something will happen before midnight. If nothing happens by the time of the all-clear, I’ll come back here, put my feet up and see you at breakfast.’
‘And then?’
‘We try again. As I said, I can’t really be sure when – but I do know it’s you next.’
‘You know, I think I just felt someone walk over my grave. Very well. Tomorrow. The 23 rd. And after that?’
‘The 29th.’
‘And the significance?’
Troy didn’t want to explain – it felt, for all his confidence in his theory, just a bit silly – so he didn’t.
Nader pulled open the drawer in the kitchen table.
‘You forgot one thing . . . hair, eyes, height, beard . . . glasses. Take my spares.’
Troy opened the case, slipped them on. Little wire-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses. The world swam. He felt what it must be like to be a goldfish.
‘As you are clearly not short-sighted, Mr Troy, I suggest you pull them down to the end of your nose and peer over them. There’s not much else you can do. But you’ll never pass for me or my father without them.’
§ 177
On the morning of the 24th Nader nudged Troy awake with a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge.
‘If you were expecting bacon and eggs you’ve come to the wrong hotel. What happened?’
Troy sipped at the tea and said, ‘Nothing. Not a sausage.’
‘You won’t get those here either.’
§ 178
‘You are an odd mixture, Billy. You profess to be a gut Tory, yet you never applied to be British and hence never received the right to vote as a gut Tory. You are a pillar of the East End Tailors . . . yet you admit to throwing bricks at policemen and you boast of cheating the taxman at every turn. All in all, I do not know what to believe . . . except to ask . . . who are you, Billy Jacks? Do you know?’
‘Maxie, you can blather all you want, you ain’t gonna make me British – been there, done that – and you ain’t gonna make me no pinko neither.’
‘Billy – am I right in summing up your philosphy as “look after number one”?’
‘You should know, you used it to take the piss out of me often enough.’
‘And mine can be summed up in much the same words . . .’
‘Yeah. Right.’
‘No . . . truly it can . . . just hear me out. Looking after oneself requires interdependence. A notion of the common good. I can sum it up in the words of some revolutionary or another – one of the Americans, I think . . . Franklin or Jefferson perhaps – when they said, “We must all hang together, or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately”.’
‘Hang. That’s like a joke, is it?’
‘It is called a pun . . . one word, two meanings.’
‘Hang together as in stick together. Like all for one and one for all?’
‘Exactly.’
And Drax knew from the look on Billy’s face that he had at last sown the seeds of doubt, but Jacks being Jacks he would undoubtedly change the subject now.
Billy stood up, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, counting change or playing with his balls. Scuffing the floorboards with his feet – the recalcitrant in the playground.
‘Me and Hummer get out in a day or two. Trench told us today. John Bull needs tailors. My daughter wrote to our local MP, he got on to the Ministry of Supply. They wrote to the War Office, the War Office wrote to the Home Office . . . and they rang Trench. Trench is only too glad to see the back of me. So we’re out . . . back to the old sewing machine. Uniforms for the boys.’
‘John Bull? Suddenly you’re British?’
‘What? Me? Billy Bull? I should Chippin’ Campden.’
More scuffing the floorboards, more playing with his balls.
‘It will be cold in London,’ Drax said. ‘Almost autumn after all. Will you give Josef my fur coat? He is so thin I fear there is no fat to keep him warm.’
The coat was hanging on the back of the door.
Billy ran his fingers down the sleeve.
‘It’s seen better days.’
‘All the same, I would be grateful if you would give it to him. I doubt I shall have need of it.’
Missing the point entirely, Billy said, ‘What and have him go round Stepney looking like the skinny man’s Bud Flanagan?’
Hummel did not miss the point. It reminded him of inheriting his father’s coat, and that reminded him of losing his father’s coat on Kristallnacht. He accepted the coat and thanked Drax profusely, knowing they would never meet again.
‘Y
ou would, of course . . .’ said Drax, stating the obvious, ‘be safer here. London is bombed every night now.’
‘It’s where I belong, Max.’
‘Really, Josef. So soon? And Billy where does he belong? And our absent leader, Herr Troy. Wandering Jews the both of them.’
‘One of them a Jew who knows nothing but Stepney and the other no Jew at all.’
‘Nevertheless, you take my point.’
‘Indeed I do, Max. But it is not a matter of where they belong, merely of when.’
§ 179
As soon as the glue dried under his beard, Troy perched Nader’s spare specs on the end of his nose and crossed the road to the Heaven’s Gate Synagogue. The air-raid was well under way the boom of bombs ripping through the air from the docks on the Isle of Dogs, and the street was deserted.
He had decided the last time to make himself useful. It was not yet dusk, but the light within seemed to change little with the time of day. Murky by day – by night the holes in the roof let in moonlight shafts, the reflected glow of London burning, and the interior of the synagogue was a perpetual half-light. Troy sorted debris, built piles of what was salvageable and what he thought was not. The trick, he had decided, was to do it quietly, to always have one ear cocked to the background sound, to filter the sound of mayhem for the one sound that mattered – and almost always to have something in his hand which could be used to fend off an assailant. If needs be, he’d bash his brains out with a 2-by-4 or the ornamental brass base of an oil lamp.
Planes passed directly overhead just about midnight. The growl and grumble of a big cat. It was the re-creation of the fears of childhood, alone in a dark place, the sounds of chaos bursting in the sky above and the knowledge of something, someone terrible just around the corner. For a moment he could feel himself as he was aged seven. He stopped, sat on an intact pew and waited. Heard the bombing start up again a mile or more to the west in the City of London. He felt lucky, relieved. Bombs were not like lightning, they could and probably did strike twice. Looking at Heaven’s Gate it was, all the same, difficult not to think that the worst had already happened.
