by Mark Timlin
‘Your girlfriend Mary is very pretty. But a little short for you, and her thighs are too heavy.’
‘Bitchy,’ I said, and helped myself to a cigarette.
‘But she was very helpful.’
‘And?’
‘And I found the file you wanted.’
‘Good for you.’
She got up, went over to her jeans, reached into the back pocket and took out a piece of folded paper. ‘I took a copy,’ she said, and handed it to me.
The paper was lined and the contents were the logs of the emergency ambulance calls for the 7th of April 1972. Halfway down the sheet an entry was marked. It read:
7/4/72… Origin 999… 3.05am… 22 Hyde Pk. Mans… 723–0821
See Miss Major… Patient Harrison… Suspected heart attack
Delta six despatched… Arrived 3.12am… Patient DOA Attending MD. Dr Priest, present… No action taken
Simple as that.
‘So, at least we know he never made the hospital,’ I said. ‘Well done, love. I wonder if the ambulance attendants saw the body? I suppose the crew’s names weren’t on the files?’
‘No. But there was this though.’ She went back to her jeans and got out another sheet of copy paper. ‘I went through the previous pages,’ she said. ‘And I saw this. It may not mean anything. But…’ She pointed at an entry at the bottom of the page. It must have been the one directly before the one with the details of the shout for Harrison. It read:
7/4/72… Origin 999… 1.14am… Hyde Pk. Mans…
No flat number given/No tel. no./No contact. Caller male.
Suspected drug OD. No patient name.
Romeo four despatched… Arrived 1.28am
Nothing known. No action taken.
‘Like I say, it may have no connection…’ Dawn said.
‘And it might,’ I said. ‘You’re brilliant. We’ll make a private detective out of you yet.’
‘Thank you, kind sir, for your patronising remarks,’ she said, curtsying in her towelling robe. ‘Why don’t you stick them where the sun don’t shine?’
I grabbed at her, and caught her dressing gown, and dragged her protesting on to my lap. ‘Sorry, Babes,’ I said, licking at her face, which still tasted slightly of soap. ‘Won’t you forgive me?’ And I stuck my hand up the skirt of her robe, and started tickling her thighs, which I know just drives her crazy. She was laughing so much she was crying, and beating at me to let her go. But I had a good grip, and eventually she screamed that she forgave me, and I kissed her on the mouth and held her tight.
She went back to her chair, and filled her glass from the jug. When she’d taken a sip and regained her composure, she said, ‘So what do we do next?’
‘Next, we go to Hyde Park Mansions,’ I replied. ‘And have a nose about. We’ll go in the morning. See if there’s anyone still there who was there at the time, and also try to find out who buried our American friend. I mean, there must be someone alive who actually saw the body. And at some point, we’re going to take a look-see at where his mortal remains are buried. Highgate cemetery. I’ve heard it’s beautiful up there. Perhaps we’ll take a picture. But first I think you should get dressed, and then we’ll go and have a drink, and I’ll treat you to the best Indian dinner we can find.’
9
Dawn did as I suggested, and we spent the evening in the fleshpots of Tulse Hill, culminating in a pleasant hour or so at the Taj Mahal restaurant and take-away for a chicken pasanda, two onion bhajis, two vegetable samosas, fried rice, chickpeas in hot sauce, a few Kingfisher lagers and several Irish coffees. When we got home, we went straight to bed. Dawn rolled a grass joint without tobacco, and after that I’m afraid I’m a little hazy as to the details. But as far as I remember, a good time was had by all.
The next morning we were up early, and Dawn made a huge fry-up and a pot of freshly ground coffee. Something told me I’d done something right the night before.
‘So what’s the plan?’ she asked, when our plates were empty, and we were on our second cups of coffee.
‘No plan. We vamp it. This place is going to be pretty exclusive, I reckon, and we’ve got to look the part.’
I showered, shaved closely and put on a dark blue Hugo Boss suit, pale blue button-down shirt, a tie of muted hues in blue again, and polished my black leather Bass Weejuns to a shine that would shame a new mirror. Dawn wore grey. A grey two-piece double-breasted suit that made her look like an assistant bank manager, a pale grey silk blouse, matching tights, and black mid-heeled court shoes. Her make-up was understated, and she carried the tan Burberry I’d bought her for Christmas. All in all, we looked the right business.
Hyde Park Mansions was as exclusive as I’d guessed it would be. Concierge. The whole works. But even the most perfect organism sometimes breaks down. When Dawn and I arrived, the concierge must have gone for his tea. The front door was locked and the seat behind the desk in the foyer was empty. There was a huge entryphone system mounted on one side of the door, and I buzzed number twenty-two. There was no answer, and I buzzed again. Luckily, as we were waiting, the lift doors opened and an elderly couple walked across the foyer and opened the front door from the inside. They gave us a quizzical look, and I said, ‘We’re here to see Miss Simmons in number twenty-two,’ and quoted the name of the managing agents.
It did the trick, and the male half of the duo held the door open for Dawn and me to enter the building. She gave the bloke a dazzling smile, and his wife hustled him out and down the front steps.
‘You scored there,’ I teased her.
‘When have you ever known me to fail?’ she asked.
We walked over to the lift, and I checked the flat register on the metal plate by the side of it, found that number twenty-two was on the fourth floor, and we took the lift up. Like I said, Hyde Park Mansions was as exclusive as I’d guessed it would be. Posh even. Smart. Well up-market. But number twenty-two was the exception. The paint around the door frame was old and peeling. The door itself looked a bit out of true, and the brass furniture was green with age and lack of attention. There was no bell-push, just an old knocker in the shape of a fish. I looked at Dawn, and she looked at me. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Knock.’
So I did. Not that I expected to get a result. The buzzer at the front door had gone unanswered, and even if anyone was at home, it had been twenty years since Jay Harrison had dropped off his perch behind that door. And twenty years is a very long time.
There was no answer at first, and after about two minutes I rapped hard on the door again. Somewhere way back in the flat I heard a noise and Dawn heard it too. She pulled a face at me, and I pulled one back. Then there was the sound of locks and bolts being turned and pulled, and the door opened six inches on a brass chain, and a little, old, wizened female face, topped with snow-white hair, appeared, and a pair of black eyes behind thick, rimless spectacles peered out at us.
‘Hello,’ said Dawn. ‘Mrs Simmons?’
‘Miss,’ said the old lady who had answered the door. ‘What do you want?’
‘We’re making certain enquiries,’ I said.
‘Enquiries. What kind of enquiries?’ the old lady demanded.
‘We wondered how long you’ve been living here,’ said Dawn.
‘Why?’
‘There’s a few questions we’d like to ask you.’ Dawn again.
‘Are you more of those fans? How did you get in? I thought the porter was keeping you out.’
‘We’re not fans,’ I said, and pulled out one of my cards before she slammed the door in our faces, and held it in front of her. ‘I’m a private detective. This is my wife. Someone going out let us in. The porter wasn’t on duty.’
‘Lazy devil. He’s always disappearing when he’s needed.’ Her little black eyes sparkled. ‘Are you both detectives?’
‘Yes,’ said Dawn. I didn’t argue.
I could feel the conversation going our way.
‘Like The Thin Man,’ said the old lady. ‘Nick and Nora Charles. They’re on television sometimes in the morning. I like television in the morning, don’t you? What a coincidence you having the same Christian name,’ she said to me, clocking my card closely. ‘Have you got a dog?’
‘No,’ said Dawn, not the least fazed by the question.
‘You should get one. Nick and Nora have got a beautiful dog. A terrier. Asta’s his name. He’s ever so clever. Knows loads of tricks. He’s always rescuing them from trouble.’
‘I know,’ said Dawn. ‘I watch those films too.’
I might’ve guessed.
‘What kind of case are you on?’ asked the old lady, suddenly well into crime-busting.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ explained Dawn. ‘It’s about someone who used to live in this flat.’
‘Who?’
‘Jay Harrison.’
‘That pop singer. I knew it. People used to get in here all the time. But lately I haven’t seen so many.’
‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked.
‘Since it happened.’
‘Since 1972?’
‘Yes. I took the lease over when his friend left.’
‘Kim Major?’
‘Was that her name? I forget. My memory’s not what it used to be.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Dawn reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. It’s just that we’d be grateful if you could spare us a few minutes to answer some questions. May we come in?’
‘I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Of course.’ And the door shut in our faces, and I heard the chain rattle, and then the little old lady opened it all the way.
She was tiny. No more than five foot tall, and sort of bent in the middle, and wearing a shawl over a brown woollen dress that touched the tips of her round-toed shoes.
‘Come through,’ she said. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Yes please,’ said Dawn, and I nodded.
The flat was dark and smelt of damp and old cooking. But it was huge, and the ceilings were so high that they all but vanished into the gloom. The old lady led us down the hall into a large living room where the curtains were drawn across the windows and a dim bulb shone in the ceiling fixture.
‘Sit down,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Miss Simmons,’ said Dawn, as she sat in a lumpy-looking old armchair. ‘This place is massive. Do you live here all alone?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Miss Simmons sadly. ‘I never married. There was someone once. But he died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dawn.
‘So am I,’ said the old lady. ‘I still think of him every day, even though it was over fifty years ago that it happened. In the war. You know.’
Dawn nodded, and I chose an upright chair next to a table covered in a dingy white lace cloth.
‘Milk and sugar?’ asked Miss Simmons.
‘Yes please,’ Dawn and I said in chorus, and the old lady left the room.
‘Poor soul,’ said Dawn. ‘I think it’s very sad.’
I nodded agreement. I did as it happened. It’s shit to have someone you love snatched away by untimely death. Both of us knew that.
Dawn and I sat in the silence of the flat, silence broken only by the tinkle of metal on china from the kitchen.
It took Miss Simmons only a few minutes to make the tea, and she came back into the room carrying a huge silver tray covered in crockery.
‘Here, let me,’ I said, and took the tray from her and placed it on the table next to where I’d been sitting.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’
She fiddled around pouring out three cups of tea and offered us some digestive biscuits, which Dawn refused and I accepted, then sat down in the armchair opposite the one in which Dawn was sitting.
‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘I get so few visitors these days, and now here you are, a pair of real live detectives. So how can I help you? Why are you interested after all this time?’
I thought that honesty would be the best policy. She seemed like a nice old party, and frankly there was no reason to lie.
‘Some evidence has turned up that he might not be dead at all,’ I explained. ‘And we’ve been hired to look into the matter.’
I clocked Dawn’s stare at the ‘we’ve’.
‘Fancy,’ said Miss Simmons. ‘What sort of evidence?’
‘A letter.’
‘How exciting. I hope I can help.’
‘So do I,’ I said. But I didn’t give it much hope. ‘You say you moved in here straight after Kim Major left,’ I said. ‘How long after Jay Harrison died was that?’
‘About three months, I think. I’m sorry I don’t really follow popular music. The last record I can remember was by Al Bowlly, before he died in the Blitz. I didn’t even know who the boy was who died, but there was a lot of gossip from the neighbours at the time. I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m not being much help, am I?’
I smiled reassuringly. ‘That’s all right, Miss Simmons,’ I said. ‘We’re lucky to find anyone who remembers anything after all this time. What sort of gossip?’
‘The usual. Parties. Noise ’til all hours. You know.’
I did.
‘How come you got the place?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you mind that someone had died here?’
‘I got the place because I was on the waiting list. And no I didn’t mind that someone had died here. After what I saw during the war, I know that the dead can’t hurt you. Only the living. The place isn’t haunted, if that’s what you mean.’
She might have been old and stooped, but Miss Simmons definitely retained all her marbles.
‘Has it changed much?’ I asked, looking round. It definitely didn’t look like a pop star’s gaff. But then, like I said, twenty years is a long time.
‘No. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a fly in the ointment for the owners. Since I moved in, this block has been sold about fifteen times. Property developers, you know. They’ve improved most of the flats and sold a lot of them, and I’m on a very long lease, with a fixed rent. A very low fixed rent. They’ve tried to buy me out dozens of times. But I’m used to living here, and where would I go? So they think that if they don’t do anything for me, I’ll just disappear… They’re wrong,’ she added.
‘Good for you,’ said Dawn.
‘In fact it hasn’t changed much. These are all the same decorations as when I moved in. And they were here when they moved in too, from what I can remember from talking to the girl at the time. I don’t think they had much money when they came over here. I can remember she was forced to leave. She couldn’t afford the rent, low as it was. She told me that she was penniless after he died.’
‘You actually knew her?’ I said.
‘Yes. We met twice. Once the day I took over the place, and once later. But I never knew what happened to her. She never came back for the last of her stuff.’
‘What stuff?’ I asked.
‘The stuff she left here.’
‘Kim Major left stuff here?’
‘Yes. When I moved in there was a lot. A whole room full. She came over one night and picked most of it up. But there wasn’t room for everything in the taxi, so she asked me if I’d mind looking after it for her. Of course I agreed. She was in a terrible state. I made her tea, and we chatted for ages. I liked her. But I never saw her again. Do you know where she is?’
Dawn looked at me. ‘I’m afraid she’s dead too, Miss Simmons,’ she said.
‘Dead? But she was so young. And pretty.’
‘It was drugs,’ said Dawn. ‘The same as killed Jay Harrison.’
‘So sad,’ said Miss Simmons.
‘What did she leave?’ I asked.
‘A mattress, some pots a
nd pans, a chair, some clothes and a suitcase.’
‘And it’s all still here?’
She seemed almost offended at my question. ‘Of course. She asked me to keep it for her, and I did.’
‘And no one’s ever asked for it?’
Miss Simmons shook her head. ‘The people who came here, the fans, and sometimes newspaper writers, were only interested in him. Not her. And besides I didn’t want to tell them about it. It was none of their business.’
‘But you’ve told us,’ said Dawn.
Miss Simmons’s eyes twinkled again. ‘You’re different,’ she said. ‘I can tell. The others who came didn’t care about the girl. I could see it in their eyes. But you two did, and you’re in love. I can tell that in your eyes too. And that makes me trust you.’
I swear I blushed, and I know Dawn did.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Simmons. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Forgive an old woman.’
I mumbled something, but Dawn laughed out loud. ‘Of course we do. I’m very flattered, and glad that you could see. We just got married recently.’
‘I thought so,’ replied Miss Simmons. ‘And I hope you have a lot of years together. Not like me and my young man. Or that girl and her friend.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dawn. ‘I hope so too.’
‘Did she have anyone?’ asked Miss Simmons. ‘The girl. A family or anything?’
‘Not here,’ I said. ‘In America.’
‘Would you be able to trace them?’
‘Yes. The people I’m working for are American. They’d know,’ I said.
‘Would you see that they get what she left?’
‘I could try. Can I see it?’
‘Of course. The furniture and clothes are still in the box room. But I put the case up in the loft with the water tank. You’ll have to get it down. I haven’t been able to get up there for years.’
She got up and I followed. Dawn stayed where she was. Miss Simmons took me further back into the flat, and opened the door to a tiny room full of junk. At the back was a single mattress leaning against the wall, a big, heavy wooden chair with dusty arms, piled high with hippie-looking dresses, and a stack of saucepans standing next to it. It wasn’t a very interesting find. I glanced at the stuff, then Miss Simmons pointed up at the ceiling to a recessed trapdoor with a handle attached. ‘Pull it down,’ she said.
