Five
More often than not I found myself heading to Benny’s café in the morning for breakfast. It was a combination of laziness—an inability to fend for myself at that time of day—and a desire to mix with humanity after a night alone in the dark. It was good to have a natter with the old chap over a plate of warm grub and he rarely charged me the full whack. The cocoon-like warmth of the café with the steam and smell of bacon fat and the hot sweet tea helped me face up to the rigours of another day. Benny’s was like a second home to me. On Fridays whenever possible, I took along Peter after school for an end of week treat. In fact, routines were rapidly becoming part of my life and I had to admit that I found the experience rather comfortable. In my thirty rather disturbed years I was more settled now than I ever had been before. Business wasn’t great but I survived at least—and I had a girlfriend, Max, who, to my continued surprise and delight, lavished affection and kisses upon me, commodities that had been missing most of my life. Certainly affection was an alien concept in the various orphanages where I spent my formative years. I had been shunted from one soulless establishment to another without experiencing the warmth and security of family life that most kids enjoy and take for granted. Now I seemed to have constructed one from a set of disparate individuals. Benny was like a wise, caring and sometimes cantankerous father; I had my lovely Max who seemed to care for me despite my penury and damaged features; and Peter, who had been part of my life for three years now, was like a son, or perhaps a younger brother. Peter lived with two spinster ladies Martha and Edith Horner who, while doting on him, were not sentimental enough not to keep him on the straight and narrow or over-indulge him. Already Peter had a way with the female sex, but Martha and Edith had proved immune to his more extreme blandishments. So far, at least. Not that they had a hard task. He was a good lad and was desperate to follow in my footsteps and become an ‘ace detective’—his words, not mine. It was all very cosy. Although occasionally a voice somewhere in my head questioned whether it really was all just a little too cosy and suggested that there was a danger that it could become claustrophobic or, worse still, something I came to rely on and that one day it would be taken from me. I tried as hard as I could to silence that disturbing little voice, but it would pipe up when I least expected it. But then I was one of the many who faced this fear. War had removed all certainties; home, family, friends and freedom were all at risk now.
On arriving at the café, Benny greeted me with a cheery wave and a beaming smile. ‘Take a seat, Johnny, I’ll be with you shortly,’ he whispered, as he swept past me into the kitchen. Slipping off my overcoat, I did as I was told. The café was very busy, as it usually was in the morning. There was a fine cross section of Londoners all tucking into Benny’s cheap but comforting breakfast fare: there were pinstriped office workers, shop girls, highly painted and carefully coiffured, a few servicemen and a couple of weary-looking ARP wardens grabbing a bite to eat before heading home to the comfort of warm beds. Since the outbreak of war there was very little good food to be had anywhere. The stuff on offer both at home and in cafés was all diluted, improvised and imitation versions of the meals we had before rationing had been instigated. Gravy was made with powder, eggs also and vegetables replaced meat and, where meat was available, it was usually the less appetizing sections of the beast like skirt, flank or leg. Of course, you could get old-fashioned grub if you had contacts or knew where to go for a black market feast, but Benny wouldn’t have any truck with that business and so he did the best he could with what was legally on offer. In general he made a good stab at it, although I always steered clear of his watery custard tarts, which tasted of nothing but upset the stomach within minutes of consumption.
Benny moaned about business regularly but he and I knew he had a little goldmine here.
‘What’s new with you, Johnny boy?’ Benny asked, as he delivered my tea and bacon sandwich. (A genuine bacon sandwich with little slivers of chopped bacon supplemented by layers of fried tomatoes.)
‘Same old. Same old.’ I rarely discussed my cases with Benny—not out of a matter of privacy but, in truth, it often bored me to regurgitate my problems and concerns regarding work. Similarly, the old guy was not really interested in my professional activities, unless there was a particularly lurid episode that I’d been involved in and then he was eager to hear all the details. But in the main Benny was more concerned about my love life.
‘You proposed to her yet?’ he said, slipping into the seat opposite me.
I shook my head, my mouth full of food. ‘I’ve only known the girl for a few months,’ I said at length. ‘What can I offer her? Certainly not a home and comfort.’
‘You love her, don’t you?’
‘I think so.’
Benny rolled his eyes in exasperation.
‘Such prevarication. I’ve seen you two together. A match made upstairs, I tell you.’
‘You’re an old romantic.’
‘And you’re a young one. You don’t think I can tell? We recognize the breed, my boy. Look at me. Only yesterday I was courting my wife. There I was, a straight-backed, dark-haired boy with a youthful gleam in his eye. Today I am looking seventy in the face. A widower with no one to warm my sheets at night. Life is short, Johnny. And it’s got even shorter since Herr Hitler came on the scene. You’ve got to grab happiness while you can. You never know what’s around the next corner.’
I grinned gently. ‘Here endeth today’s lesson.’
‘You know, you know, Johnny Hawke, that I speak the truth. Don’t waste time. As I said: you never know what’s around the next corner.’ With that he hurried away to greet two new customers.
Little did I know then that I would come to remember that conversation with a cruel vividness in the weeks ahead. ‘You never know what’s around the next corner.’
*
Chez Harolde was part of a row of shops on Camden High Street trapped between a tobacconist and a hardware store. The painted sign aimed at sophistication but missed by a mile. It boasted the legend: ‘Chez Harolde—Hairdressing Salon to Ladies of Choice’. It looked, as did the shop frontage, a little faded and time-worn. Beneath in smaller lettering were the words: ‘Prop: Harold Crabtree’. How disappointing to discover that Harolde was a simple Harold and about as French as Camden High Street. There were net curtains at the windows which were steamed up making it impossible to see inside without entering, so that is what I did.
A lumpy girl at the cash desk looked up lazily from a magazine she was perusing and gave me a non-committal glance. If she were an example of Chez Harolde’s expertise with hair, I didn’t think much to it. Her barnet wasn’t so much styled as ruffled and looked not unlike a mop head which needed a good wash.
She cocked an eye of query at me, speech having obviously been denied her for the moment.
‘I’d like to see Mr Crabtree?’
‘You mean Harold?’ she said without a flicker of interest.
I nodded. ‘Yes, the owner.’
‘What for? This is a ladies’ hairdressers. He don’t do men.’
‘I have some business with him,’ I said tartly. Already the girl was beginning to irritate me.
Without another word she retreated into the shop past two girls busily attending to their customers’ hair. One woman had her head over a sink, having her scalp massaged with soapy suds, while the other was having a set of curlers attached to her thinning grey hair.
The French flavour indicated by the sign outside certainly did not make its presence felt inside the shop. It was a very ordinary, and rather down-at-heel hairdressers which had probably seen better days before the war. However, as I caught sight of myself in one of the mirrors, a pale, shabby-looking chap with an eye patch, I reckoned that could apply to me also.
The charming receptionist had disappeared behind a pink curtain at the far end of the shop and moments later a man emerged. I deduced this must be Harolde/Harold. He was a tall but very chubby fellow who wore a white smock
coat at the neck of which a large pink bowtie jiggled unnervingly, rather like a butterfly flapping erratically at his throat.
He walked, or rather glided, down the length of the shop towards me, stopping on the way to speak to the lady with the curlers. ‘That’s looking lovely, Mrs Barker. Your husband won’t recognize you when you’re done.’ A dubious compliment, I thought. She muttered something in reply. He gave a little satisfied giggle and moved on.
By the time he reached me, the smile had disappeared, but the light sibilant voice remained. ‘Can I help you?’ he said, in such a tart tone that it reversed the meaning of his query.
I produced my card. Harold scanned it suspiciously and handed it back. ‘Well, Mr Hawke, what’s it all about?’
‘I’m making enquiries about Beryl Garner who used to work here.’
‘Well, she did, but that was ages ago. And she’s dead. Got killed in a car crash. Terrible accident.’
I nodded to indicate I knew all this. ‘I just want some details about her. Was she a good hairdresser?’
Harold pursed his lips and made a squeaking sound. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, dragging the word out. ‘She was a good worker, but I wouldn’t say she was an artiste. You see, I like to employ artistes with hair. Hairdressing is an art form, you know. Just like a painter we start with a bare canvas and with care and finesse you create a work of beauty. Beryl did not have the lightness of touch or that inspirational streak. What she did was workmanlike and reliable but no more.’
‘Did she get on with her fellow workers?’
‘My girls. Oh, yes, she was a pleasant enough soul.’
‘Did she talk about her private life at all?’
‘Not to me she didn’t.’
‘Did any men friends call round here to see her?’
‘No.’ The eyebrows shot up in indignation. ‘Chez Harolde is not that kind of establishment.’
‘Did she have a particular friend in the salon?’
He paused for a moment. ‘Well, yes, yes she did. Sylvia Moore. Now Sylvia was an artiste. It was a sad day when I lost her, I can tell you. You should see what she could do with a mop of lank hair and a pair of curling tongs.’
‘Sylvia and Beryl were friends?’
Harold nodded and his bow tie fluttered again. ‘They had a real good natter during the slack periods and they often took lunch together. They acted like sisters really. In fact they looked a lot alike.’ Suddenly Harold stopped as though he realized he had said more than he should have. ‘Look, what is this all about?’
I sidestepped the question with one of my own. ‘Do you know where Sylvia went to after she left you?’
‘No, no I don’t. Actually, it was all very strange. She seemed perfectly happy here and then one day out of the blue she handed in her notice. She didn’t really give a reason. Said she fancied a change and…well, that was it. She left at the end of the day and I never saw her again.’
‘Was this around the time of Beryl’s death?’
Harold’s bright blue, piggy eyes widened. ‘Why, now you come to mention it, I reckon it was.’
‘Have you got an address for Sylvia? Where she was living when she worked for you.’
‘Well, I do, but that’s confidential. Why do you want to know these things?’
‘I’m making some enquiries on behalf of an insurance company. Nothing for you to get alarmed about, but it would be in your interest to release that information. It will save trouble later on.’
Harold looked aghast and his chin wobbled, setting the bow tie off again. ‘Trouble. What do you mean by trouble?’
I looked around suspiciously and then leaned forward to whisper in Harold’s ear. As I did so I caught a whiff of eye-wateringly pungent cologne. ‘We’re trying to keep the police out of it. Your assistance would be a great help.’
At the mention of ‘the police’ I thought Harold was going to have a seizure. His substantial frame shook with apprehension and his chins juddered like jelly straight from the mould.
‘This is a respectable establishment. I don’t want any more trouble with the police.’
‘Any more?’
Harold cast me a sheepish glance. ‘There was an indiscreet episode before the war. It was simply a case of misunderstanding with a soldier. I’ve not been in trouble since.’
I nodded sympathetically. ‘Just let me have that address and I’ll make sure you’re not bothered by the cops.’
Harold nodded eagerly. ‘Just a minute while I get my book.’ He waddled back down the length of the shop with some urgency and disappeared once more behind the pink curtain. He reappeared some moments later carrying a large ledger-like tome.
On reaching me, he riffled through the pages of the book, his stubby fingers stabbing at the elaborate scrawling handwriting within. ‘I have my customers and my staff in here,’ Harold muttered almost to himself. ‘Here we are,’ he announced at last. ‘Sylvia Moore, 27a Cromwell Road, Islington.’
I made a note of the address. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Sylvia. Any boyfriends? Family?’
‘She never mentioned any; boyfriends or family. I thought she was a lonely soul really. Perhaps that’s why she was so friendly with Beryl.’
‘You said that she and Beryl looked a lot alike. Can you describe Sylvia?’
‘Well, she was tall. Nice and slim but with broad shoulders. She kept her hair—a dark auburn colour—cut short, urchin-like. Good bone structure, but her face looked a bit miserable in repose though.’
‘A pretty girl?’
‘Not really. She was rather plain. That’s why she had no boyfriends, I suppose.’
‘I suppose. Did she have any distinguishing features?’
‘None that I can recall. She was pretty ordinary really. Didn’t stand out in the crowd.’ He paused and ran a single podgy finger across his moist brow. ‘Is that all, then?’ He was eager for the interview to be over.
I reckoned it was. It seemed to me that my plump fey hairdresser had revealed all he could about Beryl and her friend, the tall, slim, nondescript Sylvia Moore.
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Crabtree. Keep my card and if you think of anything else which may help, please give me a call.’
He picked it up casually and held it gingerly with his plump fingers. I was fairly sure that as soon as I had departed, he would drop it into the nearest wastepaper basket.
He nodded with relief as I headed for the door. It struck me as I emerged into the cold air of a December day, that Harold Crabtree and I were in some ways brothers. We were both outsiders—he because of his sexual proclivities and me because of my orphan status and disfigured face and neither of us was able to fit in easily or completely with the world around us.
Six
‘I thought I’d find you here.’ Vic Bernstein leaned over the shoulder of his brother Anthony at the gaming table.
‘What do you want?’
‘A few words. A few sensible, instructive words.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ He leaned forward and placed five chips on the green baize for number nine.
‘I’m talking about Gina.’
‘That bitch. She can go to hell.’
‘Indeed. She probably will. But we can’t allow her to arrange the trip herself.’
Anthony frowned ‘Will you stop speaking in riddles.’
Vic placed a hand on his brother’s back. ‘In simple terms then: we need a plan.’
Anthony frowned again; the roulette ball had landed in the slot marked twelve.
*
Harold Crabtree was a troubled man. He sat in a hunched posture at the back of his shop, hidden behind the pink curtain, smoking a cigarette in an impulsive fashion and intermittently biting his nails. He knew that he had said too much—told that private detective fellow more than he should. Especially giving him Sylvia’s old address. He shouldn’t have done that. He had betrayed a confidence. He took another long nervous drag of the cigarette, but it failed to calm hi
s nerves.
It was when the detective had mentioned the police that he had cracked. He certainly didn’t want to get mixed up with them again. He’d had enough last time. They had made his life a misery. He still felt the pain of the shame and humiliation. And all because he had misjudged the situation. If he’d known the soldier wasn’t the least bit interested—it just seemed at the time that he was. How could he have been so wrong?
Even now he came out in a cold sweat if he saw a policeman in the street. The uniform brought vivid images of that cold, damp, foul-smelling cell in which he spent the worst months of his life and the jibes, name-calling and surreptitious violence of the other prisoners. He knew in his heart of hearts that he’d rat on his own mother rather than go through that experience again.
Nevertheless, Harold Crabtree felt guilty at being so loose with his tongue to the snooper with the eye patch and, as he stubbed out the cigarette, he came to a decision. Snatching up the telephone from the table, he dialled a number swiftly before he had chance to change his mind.
It rang several times before a voice answered.
‘Oh, hello, Sylvia, It’s Harold here. I thought I’d better warn you…’
*
With slow, deliberate movements, Leo Bernstein took his time slicing the end off his cigar and lighting it with an onyx table lighter. Then he sat back on his chair with a smile of satisfaction and blew a cloud of smoke in the direction of his visitor. It was a little performance to illustrate how at ease he felt and he hoped it would annoy the hell out of the copper sitting across the desk from him.
David Llewellyn contained his impatience and indeed his growing irritation. He had experienced this kind of mannered ceremony before from all kinds of malefactors, but Leo Bernstein was a master. He had met Leo on several previous occasions. He was one of those smooth, small-time villains who had the remarkably facility of wriggling from David’s net whenever he thought he had a secure catch. But this was the first case that he’d come to see him regarding a murder.
The Darkness of Death Page 4
