‘You believe all this?’ asked Jemma.
‘For the time being. It’s all I’ve got. He was trying to get on the council to push through some crooked land deal. They were making a pile with the dirty pictures. Although he said the recession has killed a lot of it off.’
‘Well done the recession,’ she muttered. ‘And that’s why he stopped doing it …?’
Davies said: ‘And Dulciman’s disappearance plus the fact that the London nasties were moving in on them, two events which may be not unconnected …’
Mod, sitting in the back, said: ‘It doesn’t do to mix it with toughs.’ He paused. ‘I trust we are not going to. In any case I’m getting behind with my studies. And I don’t think you can put up with any further assaults, Dangerous. You’ll simply collapse, like some gutted building.’
When they reached Willesden they dropped Mod at the Babe In Arms and Jemma took Davies back to her flat. He could not face Doris nor Mrs Fulljames with his ribs. Not immediately.
Jemma helped him up the stairs and into the bedroom where she stretched him out on her bed. She took his shoes off, then prised his overcoat away, hardly taking her eyes from his face. ‘That bump,’ she sighed. ‘What a colour.’
‘Aubergine,’ said Davies.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again and saw her still regarding him with her deep expression, part sorrow, part exasperation. ‘What am I going to do about you, Dangerous?’ she said.
‘Anything but the Madras curry,’ he sighed. He closed his eyes. ‘I didn’t do what you thought I did. Honest, I didn’t.’
‘I know.’ She sniffed back tears. ‘I should have known. I’m sorry about the curry.’
He opened his eyes to slits and saw a touch of a smile on her pensive face. ‘It was only a mild curry,’ he said.
Jemma began to laugh and cry at the same time. She moved forward and lay upon him. He howled with pain.
Thirteen
Davies walked painfully along the High Street and to the police station. ‘Drinking again, Dangerous?’ called the desk sergeant cheerfully.
‘In the call of duty, Francis,’ responded Davies. He made to walk towards the CID Room. The sergeant called after him. ‘Know a bloke called Weary Williams?’
Davies paused. ‘Yes, I know Weary. What’s he been up to?’
‘Don’t know. He’s been in a couple of times but he’ll only talk to you.’
‘It’s called popularity,’ said Davies over his shoulder. ‘I’ll find out where he is.’
‘No need to go far,’ said the sergeant. ‘He’s down in the cells. Brought in last night. Drunk and aggressive.’
Weary Williams was not big enough to be truly aggressive; not without having to pay heavily for it. Looking through the grille Davies could see him hunched in the cell nursing a split lip. Being familiar with the injury he regarded it sympathetically. The door was not locked. Williams looked up as he entered.
‘Watcha Dangerous,’ he said, his rattish face lighting up. He shook hands eagerly. His hand like his face was small and bony. ‘Can’t smile,’ he added apologetically. ‘This starts pouring blood.’
‘I know,’ returned Davies feelingly. ‘I know, Weary. What’s your problem?’
‘Usual,’ sighed Williams. ‘I got ’im first this time. Bang!’ His miniature hand smacked into his small palm. ‘When I punch ’em, they stay punched.’ Davies was breathing painstakingly because of his ribs. ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars too, Dangerous.’
‘Nothing much, Weary. What’s a few ribs.’
‘Nasty I should think, mate. I been tryin’ to see you.’
‘So I heard.’
Williams wiped his face with his sleeve, skilfully avoiding his lip. ‘Had breakfast?’ asked Davies. ‘You’re entitled.’
‘Don’t I know it. Yes. Can’t complain. The grub in this nick always was a bit of all right.’ Davies sat on the opposite bunk and Williams leaned towards him and said: ‘You ’member you was up at the Welsh Harp, that boot sale?’ Davies nodded. ‘Well, I was up there,’ continued Williams, ‘but you di’n see me. I do a bit of business there. Selling … and buying like. But I was hangin’ about there, behind somefink, when I ’eard you asking that bloke with the bits and pieces, I don’t know ’is name, you was askin’ him about a thing with like a German swastika on it. A brooch or somefink wa’n’t it?’
Davies caught his breath as he leaned forward. It hurt again. ‘Yes, Weary …’ he encouraged.
‘Is there a reward?’ asked Williams.
‘There could be. It’s a murder, Weary.’
The pale face went paler. ‘Oh Gawd, is it. Well, I don’t want to get anybody into trouble nor anyfink, but I ’membered you saying it and then a bit later I was down at Portobello Road, down the market. There’s a geezer called Longo and what do I see on a stall, but this …’
While Davies’ eyes widened he produced from his pocket a brown envelope and from that took a red swastika brooch. Davies stared at it and then at Williams. Silently he held out his hand.
Williams put the brooch in his palm. ‘Is that the one?’ he asked tremulously.
He left Williams in the cell and went back to the CID Room. He telephoned Harrow Road Police Station and asked for a list of stallholders at the Portobello Road Market. They did not have one but they knew a man who did.
‘Detective Constable Davies, Willesden CID here,’ he said when he called the number.
There was a touch of anxiety: ‘Oh, yes, Mr Davies. What can I do for you?’
‘You hold the names of the stallholders at Portobello, I think.’
‘I collect the rents. Who was it you wanted?’
Davies looked at the grubby piece of paper which Weary had given to him. ‘Longo Burke,’ he recited. ‘Know him?’
There was a half laugh. ‘Longo. Of course. I hope he hasn’t been up to anything.’
‘It’s just some information,’ said Davies.
‘Right. Well he’s got a place out in the country. In Essex. Here it is. Pickering’s Barn, Saffron Walden. Shouldn’t be hard to locate.’ His voice gained in confidence. ‘Not for a detective.’
‘I’ll try my very best,’ said Davies caustically. He put the receiver down and glanced around to the Detective Superintendent’s office. He could see Harvey’s shape behind the frosted glass. He knew full well he ought to go in there now, produce the brooch and tell the story. But that would be the last he would hear of it. It would be taken out of his hands. Besides which, he consoled himself, Weary might be mistaken or telling lies, which was not unknown with criminals, or this was just another red swastika brooch. He had to take it – just a little – further.
He went out of the police station with Williams. On the front steps Weary surveyed the street, both ways. ‘Sorry Dangerous,’ he said. ‘No offence but I got to be careful who I’m seen wiv.’
Davies said he understood and he glanced each way himself. ‘I wouldn’t want you in trouble with the Mafia, Weary,’ he muttered.
They had a police driver and Weary ducked low in the back seat until they were well clear of Willesden and on the M25 going east. They took the Saffron Walden road and Weary sat up and beamed from the window like a small boy on an outing. ‘Cor, look at them fields, Dangerous,’ he said. ‘Green to hurt your eyes. And those cows.’
‘You’ve seen cows, Weary,’ admonished Davies from the front seat.
‘Only on the box,’ insisted Williams.
They turned into the old market town. The driver went into the police station and returned quickly. ‘They know him,’ he said with meaning. ‘This Pickering’s Barn place is on the main road out.’
It was two miles from the town. A broad, wooden building with a steeply sloping roof. As they arrived they heard gunshots. At once the driver picked up his radio link. Davies touched him on the shoulder. ‘Hold it a second. Let’s have a look.’
The driver gave him a glance duplicated by Williams who had dropped to the floor between the
seats. ‘I ain’t goin’ in there, Dangerous,’ he called up.
‘I’ll go,’ sighed Davies. ‘It’s probably this bloke beating his carpets.’ He climbed out of the car.
‘Some carpets,’ corrected the police driver to Williams who had remained under cover.
‘What’s he beatin’ them wiv, I want to know,’ Williams said.
They had brought the car onto a mud-and-stone drive in front of the barn. Davies went circumspectly along the track watched by the two men. He was ten yards short of the open barn door when there was another gunshot. He half dropped but immediately straightened and ran towards the wide door.
Putting his head around the post he saw that the firing was not coming from inside the barn. On the far side of the building was another open door. He could see drifting smoke. The barn was piled with junk, copper, brass, wrecked furniture, but standing in one corner were large objects neatly wrapped and apparently ready for removal. He went across the floor and out into the field. Another blast exploded. He bent his knees and peered around the corner. A very large man wearing jeans, a checked shirt, a leather waistcoat, and ear muffs, was firing a double-barrelled shotgun at a line of wooden chairs. He had lowered the gun but now he brought it to his bulky shoulder again and fired the second barrel. Davies waited until the sound had diminished and the blue smoke had cleared before approaching.
‘What are you doing?’ he inquired.
‘Making antiques,’ replied the man turning without hurry. His face was massive, the lower part festooned with a wide and unruly moustache and a thick ragged beard. ‘Making them?’ said Davies. ‘I thought they had to grow old.’
‘It’s helping them do it,’ explained the man unconcernedly. ‘It’s called distressing. What can I do for you?’
Davies told him who he was and produced his warrant card. ‘Ho!’ laughed the man. His voice was bluff, not quite upper class. ‘You haven’t come to arrest me for this have you?’
‘It wasn’t my intention,’ admitted Davies.
‘You’d have to prove a lot of things,’ shrugged the man. ‘What was your intention then?’
Davies produced the swastika brooch. ‘Ever seen this before?’
Putting the shotgun onto a box, Longo Burke took the brooch between a large finger and an oily thumb. ‘Oh, yes. Not long ago, either. I had it on my stall down at Portobello. I sold it to somebody.’
‘I’ll introduce you,’ said Davies. He went into the barn and through to the other door, calling ‘Weary!’ towards the car.
Williams pushed his head out timidly. ‘You all right, Dangerous? We was worried.’
‘Weary, come on over, will you. The shooting’s stopped.’
Williams, not particularly convinced, left the police car and walked towards the barn, eyeing it all the way. Timidly he looked around the door. ‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Out the back,’ said Davies. ‘Longo is ageing some furniture.’
Williams kept behind Davies. They went out on the other side and Longo Burke grinned through his beard and said: ‘Yes, that’s him. Does he want his money back?’
Williams shook his head. Davies said: ‘No, but I hope you can remember where you got this.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s stolen,’ said Burke. ‘It’s only worth a couple of pounds, if that.’
‘Cost me a fiver from you,’ said Williams.
‘It could be important,’ Davies said to Burke. ‘In a murder investigation.’
The big man’s whiskers fell. ‘Oh, really. Well in that case I’d better check.’ He made towards the barn taking the shotgun with him.
‘Don’t like shooters,’ Williams whispered to Davies. ‘Any sort.’
‘Mr Burke only shoots at chairs,’ said Davies.
‘Sideboards and tables, cabinets,’ corrected Burke. He picked up a grubby ledger. ‘Keep everything on record,’ he said. ‘It makes holes, like woodworm. It gives it a bit of age.’
Burke was still studying the book running his fingers down the entries. ‘Yoghurt is good for copper,’ he said informatively. ‘And a teabag stains documents and prints a treat.’ He sniffed hugely. ‘Here it is.’ He handed the grimy ledger to Davies. ‘At least I think so.’
‘Assorted junk,’ read Davies. ‘Costume jewellery etc.’ His eyes went along the line. ‘Russian Mike,’ he said. ‘That’s the bloke you bought it from?’
‘Like I say, I think so,’ nodded Burke. ‘With bits and pieces like this I don’t note every item. But I seem to remember this brooch being in that stuff I bought from him.’ He took the ledger back. ‘I gave him a fiver for the lot.’
‘And I paid you a fiver,’ said Williams indignantly. ‘For one thing.’
Burke looked at him loftily. ‘I have my overheads,’ he said looking up at the barn roof.
‘Do you know this man?’ asked Davies. ‘Russian Mike.’
‘By sight,’ said Burke. ‘I don’t know his real name. You know how they get nicknames in Portobello.’
‘Do you know where he can be found?’
Burke shook his head. ‘He’s just “around” if you know what I mean. Can I ask who’s been murdered?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Davies shortly. ‘When you say “around”, around where? Portobello Road?’
Burke was becoming concerned. ‘That’s right.’ He looked at Davies. ‘This is a bit serious.’
‘Murder often is,’ said Davies.
‘He may have got it from somewhere else, somebody else,’ added Burke hurriedly. ‘This sort of stuff circulates, you know.’
‘Well, we’ll have to ask him,’ said Davies. ‘Fairly quickly.’
He had gone as far as he dared. He knew he should have taken the swastika brooch to Detective Superintendent Harvey the moment Williams had produced it in the cell. His excuse that it was necessary to check it out first was hollow. So was the argument that it would not do to waste the superintendent’s time with a trifle of evidence from a witness as unreliable as Williams. It did not even convince him. What would it do to Detective Superintendent Harvey? Davies sighed deeply.
There was, of course, the added excuse that he had needed to check the history of the brooch with Longo Burke. Swastika brooches were far from unknown. In the East the red swastika was a charitable emblem and plenty of people from Willesden were familiar with the East. It would not have done to have led the Detective Superintendent on a false trail. Would it? He sighed again.
Davies took the pin in its paper wrapping out of his pocket and studied it. Then he put it back, got up and walked through the CID Room. He could see Harvey’s shape behind the frosted glass. He knocked. The invitation to go in was surly. Harvey stared up from the desk. He looked worn and unsuccessful. ‘Can I have a word?’ inquired Davies.
Harvey nodded at a chair. Davies sat down. ‘I wouldn’t mind’, grunted Harvey, ‘if I could get on with my work, my proper work of bringing villains to justice, without having to spend all my bloody time wading through this bumph.’ He swept his shirt-sleeved arm over the piled papers on the desk. ‘Look at it.’ His head came up and then; as if realising for the first time who his visitor was, he sorted fiercely through the papers. ‘Shit, I can’t find it now,’ he said. ‘But you seem to have been having a lot of sick leave, Davies.’
‘I keep getting duffed up,’ pointed out Davies. ‘In the course of duty.’
‘Oh yes,’ muttered Harvey as if trying to find a flaw in the argument. He examined the square figure in the chair. ‘And you’re nowhere near as fit as you were.’
‘I don’t wonder,’ returned Davies in a hurt way. ‘The way I get lumps knocked off me every time nobody else feels like getting lumps knocked off them.’
Harvey laughed as if to humour him. ‘That’s what they used to call you, wasn’t it – Dangerous Davies?’
‘The last detective,’ Davies finished for him. ‘They still do.’
‘Perhaps we ought to think about a desk job. Fill up a couple of years before you retire.’
Harvey rose and patted him on the shoulder. It was a false bonhomie. ‘You’ve got a good record, Davies,’ said Harvey. ‘You’ve just done things all the wrong way.’ He regarded Davies with a sort of pity. ‘In the Met there are ways of doing things. And there are ways of not doing things. You know that. Now what did you want to see me about?’
‘This,’ said Davies taking the swastika brooch from his pocket and unwrapping the paper on the desk. He enjoyed the moment as he had enjoyed few in his life. As the brooch tumbled from the wrapping onto the desk and lay there, cheap glittery clasp, red enamel emblem, Harvey’s face became a mask. Then he choked. Choked so violently he could not produce words. Eventually like a man who has had a huge shock he descended heavily into his chair. ‘Where the fuck did you get that?’ he whispered.
‘Little bloke called Weary Williams. He knew we were looking for it. He saw it in Portobello Road and brought it to me. It was on the stall of a man called Longo Burke, who makes antiques, and he got it from a character known as Russian Mike …’
Harvey stared at the brooch and then at Davies. ‘How … how long have you had this?’ he asked grimly.
‘Twenty-four hours,’ said Davies. He looked up into the hard, staring eyes. ‘I thought I had better check it out first.’
Davies almost stumbled from Harvey’s office into the CID Room and then the station lobby. The desk sergeant did not need to be a policeman to notice his state. ‘What’s the trouble, Dangerous. Somebody attack you?’
‘Only the Detective Superintendent,’ mumbled Davies. He was about to head for the door when three other plain-clothes officers hurried in from the street almost knocking him over in their urgency. Then Harvey appeared from the other direction and pushed the trio towards the street again. He ignored Davies, bellowing: ‘Come on, we’ve got him! Come on, let’s go!’
‘We’ve got him,’ echoed Davies dismally as they rushed out. ‘I like the bloody “We”.’
‘What’s up?’ asked the desk sergeant.
Before Davies could answer a shabby and distraught man stumbled in from the street. His ash-stubbled face creased as he saw Davies. ‘Ah, Dangerous,’ he almost sobbed. ‘Just the bloke.’
The Complete Dangerous Davies Page 67
