‘Oops again.’
‘She told me it was urgent. Is everything all right?’
I bit my lip with chagrin. ‘Yes, things are fine. Actually, I just wanted to hear your voice and wish you good night.’
Max giggled. ‘Oh, Johnny, you old romantic. That’s lovely. I think you are a little drunk.’
‘Just a touch, maybe. I’ve indulged in a little soupçon of comfort drinking. How are things going on up there in Nottingham?’
‘Oh, very well. They’re a nice set of people and have made me very welcome.’
‘Not too welcome, I hope. I want you coming back to London.’
‘Don’t you worry, I can’t wait.’
‘Sweet dreams, then, my sweet. I’d better get off the line before I land you in more bother with that lady dragon.’
Max giggled again. ‘Sweet dreams to you also, Johnny. I love you.’
‘I love you, too,’ I said, without an ounce of self-consciousness and slowly replaced the receiver.
I went to bed with a beatific smile on my silly face and was soon deep in a dreamless sleep. I woke up as dawn was feeling its way around the edges of my black-out curtain. I sat up and reached for the cigarette packet by the side of the bed. A quick drag, I thought, then I’d better get some kip. I had rather a busy and I hoped a fruitful day ahead.
Sixteen
I shaved and had a strip wash in my little kitchen area and made myself tea but no toast—the bread bin was bare. By eight o’clock I was ready to do battle with the day. They do say that the early bird catches the worm; I just hoped I was early enough to catch the particularly unpleasant worm I was after.
Crimea Buildings is a rundown, unhealthy, unwholesome tenement block in Shoreditch. If ever there was a suitable target for the Luftwaffe, Crimea Buildings was it. It would be a compliment to describe it as a slum but it hadn’t risen to that level of excellence. As I approached it, along a cobbled street full of litter, broken bottles and dog excrement, the brittle winter daylight illuminated the decaying edifice in a sickly yellow hue, exposing the exterior signs of squalor and neglect. I knew this hell’s kitchen well when I was a copper on the beat before the war. It housed a whole range of petty criminals, prostitutes, drunkards and drug addicts. The cream of the scum. They swarmed to Crimea House like flies to a dung heap.
On reaching the narrow entrance leading to the stairs which would take me up to the higher landings, I felt like clamping my handkerchief to my mouth so tangible was the odour of corruption and despair. I passed a group of scruffy children playing with a dead cat. They had pale, gaunt, haunted faces, old before their time and stick-thin, ill-nourished bodies. As I walked by, they gave me a casual glance. One of them called out, ‘Give us a copper, mister.’
I dug into my pocket and tossed them a threepenny bit. They fell on it like ravenous carrion crows. One lad, no older than seven I would say, managed to secure it for himself and he held it aloft with a cry of triumph. He gazed at me with weirdly malevolent eyes set in a skull-like face. ‘Thanks, mister,’ he croaked. Now you can bugger off.’
The other brats fell about in a fit of hysterics.
It struck me that Peter could so easily have ended up like one of these feral scraps of humanity. Running away from a mother who ill-treated him, he had been adrift on the streets when I encountered him, but even when he was scruffy and starving there had been a kind of rough nobility about him. And there still was.
I made my way up to the top landing and passed down the walkway. Here again rubbish littered my path, along with the occasional line of washing strung across, hindering one’s passage. The clothes were grey, cheap and threadbare.
I approached one doorway where an old man was seated on an ancient wooden stool, smoking a pipe. He viewed me beneath hooded lids with suspicion. As I walked by, he spat vehemently on to the ground. I was aware that shabbily dressed as I was in my old overcoat, to him I still looked like a member of the establishment, an inhabitant of the real and comparatively lawful and prosperous world and as such someone to be despised and wary of.
Eventually, I reached my destination: 333 Crimea Buildings. I knocked.
There was no response. So I knocked again, even louder. This attempt prompted a raucous cry from within. ‘Don’t bang the bleedin’ door down. Hang on, yer bastard.’ It was a woman’s voice.
I did as I was requested and refrained from banging ‘the bleedin’ door down’.
About a minute later, it was wrenched open and a plumpish woman somewhere in her mid-thirties appeared before me. She was wrapped in a grubby pink candlewick dressing gown; her face was smeared with last night’s make-up and her peroxide blonde hair was standing on end as though, cartoon-like, she had just thrust her fingers into the electric socket and this was the result.
She squinted at me with two mascara smudged eyes. ‘Who the hell are you?’
It was the kind of greeting one had to expect in Crimea Buildings.
‘A friend of Archie’s,’ I said.
‘He ain’t got no friends.’
I didn’t know if she was joking or not, but she wasn’t smiling. She also began to close the door on me.
I put my arm forward and held it open. She gave me a look that could curdle milk, but I stepped forward causing this blonde charmer to retreat into the entrance area. ‘Get him,’ I said, sharply. ‘Or would you like a slap round that fat face of yours?’ This wasn’t gentlemanly I admit, but it was the language and attitude she would understand and respond to.
Her eyes flickered with fear momentarily but she quickly rallied and stood her ground. ‘You touch me and I’ll scratch your other eye out.’
I wasn’t about to bandy threats with her so I slipped my revolver out of my pocket and aimed it at her face. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
That did the trick. Her bravado vanished. She stepped back from me with a sob, her mouth wide with fear.
‘Who the bleedin’ hell are you? What do you want?’ Her tone was now appealing rather than aggressive.
‘I told you. I’m a friend of Archie’s. Now fetch him!’
She didn’t have to bother. The man in question lumbered out of the room at the end of the corridor. He was dressed in his vest and underpants and had a cigarette in his mouth. He moved like a man suffering from the severe constraints of a very bad hangover. I slipped the gun back in my pocket.
‘What’s all this fuckin’ noise?’ he growled, shambling towards us.
‘Good morning, Archie. How are you this fine winter’s day?’ I said smoothly.
He noticed me for the first time and his face radiated surprise. As his mouth gaped, I thought for a moment that he was going to lose the cigarette, but it was a thin roll up and it stuck to his lower lip.
‘What are you doin’ here?’ he asked.
‘I’ve come to have a little chat with you.’
‘What about?’
I glanced at the woman. ‘In private.’
‘You can fuck off,’ he said, the old empty arrogance reasserting itself.
‘He’s got a shooter, Archie.’
‘She’s right, Archie.’ I patted my overcoat pocket. ‘Want to see?’
Now Archie was lost for words and this time the cigarette did fall from his mouth and tumbled slowly down his vest before landing on the uncarpeted concrete floor.
‘Perhaps we should go into your living room while the lady here makes us a brew, eh? I presume you have got a living room?’
‘OK,’ he replied reluctantly, realizing that he had no other option.
‘Milk, no sugar for me,’ I told the blonde before following Archie through into the squalid tip which I had referred to as the living room. The first thing to hit me was the smell, a strange potent mix of sweat, mustiness and a pungent unidentifiable rancid odour which attacked my nostrils, making me want to gag. There wasn’t a clear space to be seen: clothes, old newspapers, plates with bits of food on them, empty beer bottles littered the place. I sat gingerly on the arm of a d
ecrepit armchair, not wanting to contaminate myself by actually sitting in it. Muldoon scooped up some pages of The Sporting Life and a few items of women’s clothing and, avoiding a naked spring poking through the faded moquette made a space for himself on the sofa. He looked very vulnerable sitting there in his greying underwear.
‘What’s this all about?’ he said, sitting forward, his ungainly hands dangling between his knees. ‘I told you I ain’t going to bother your little Jewish friend no more.’
I nodded. ‘That’s very kind of you, Archie. But there’s going to be a quite a few other helpless souls who won’t be so lucky. It’s not a nice business you’re in.’
‘A bloke’s got to make a living.’
This plaintive response was almost comic. It was uttered with such genuine seriousness. He saw nothing wrong in threatening folk into parting with their legitimately hard-earned cash in order to line his own pockets and those of his masters. It seemed that he’d lived a corrupt life for so long that he had lost the ability to judge what was right or wrong any more.
I decided to cut to the chase.
‘Now, Archie, we both know you aren’t bright enough to organize this little business yourself. You’re just a hireling. I just want to know who does the hiring.’
‘What do you mean I’m not smart enough?’ he muttered petulantly, his lower lip drooping with dismay.
‘Who’s in charge? Who’s the boss?’
‘Get lost.’
‘Oh, my friend, you are walking on very thin ice.’ I slipped my gun out of my pocket and rested it on my knee. ‘I advise you to cooperate or else I might be forced to use this. A trip to the morgue can easily be arranged. No one is going to miss a low life like you and I’ve enough friends in the force to cover up the matter for me. You catch my drift?’
Muldoon stared at the gun. He seemed genuinely frightened.
‘So talk.’
He ran his hand down his pale, tired face before he spoke. ‘It’s Vic Bernstein. It’s his little caper,’ he said quietly, so quietly it was as though he hoped he wouldn’t be heard. He paused again praying that this titbit of information would suffice. He could see from my expression that this was not the case.
‘And you were working with his brother, right?’
He nodded.
‘And who is this Gina that you mentioned? I got the impression that Anthony wasn’t too happy with you for mentioning her name.’
‘Gina?’ He pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about.
I pointed the gun at his groin. ‘Gina,’ I said.
‘OK, OK,’ he gulped. ‘I don’t know her. Never seen her. I ain’t been introduced. But she’s in cahoots with Vic and she’s a tough tart. They’re running the operation for old man Bernstein.’
‘Leo.’
‘Yeah. He seems to be taking a back seat on this one. I reckon this girl is the brains behind it. I reckon Vic always checks with her before decisions are made.’
‘And who is she? Where does she come from?’
‘Ain’t I told you enough?’ There was a kind of desperation in his voice now that told me I getting close to something interesting and he started to squirm a little on the sofa. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
‘Not yet.’ I lowered my gun and aimed it at Archie’s crotch. ‘Who is she?’
Archie eyes widened with fear. ‘She’s Michael’s daughter,’ he said in a rush.
‘Michael Bernstein, Leo’s brother?’
‘Yeah, Vic and Anthony’s secret cousin. She’s a Bernstein. The boys knew nothing about her until a few weeks ago. No one did ’cept Leo. Apparently when she was born, Michael squirrelled her away, out of the country—Ireland—so she’d be away from…the business.’
‘The business?’
‘The dodgy stuff, y’know.’
I knew.
‘You mean Michael didn’t want his little princess to get herself contaminated by their criminal activities?’
‘Something like that.’
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. There was something absurdly naïve about the idea that Michael Bernstein hid his daughter away so that her feminine sensibilities would not be infected by the family’s unlawful shenanigans, as though immorality was contagious.
‘And now she’s back.’
‘With a vengeance. Vic says she’s trying to take over the firm.’
My smile broadened. So she hadn’t been spared. The taint was in her soul. The Bernstein genes had won through in the end. Apparently taking a rotten apple from a barrel of rotten apples will not cure it.
‘As I say, I’ve not met her,’ continued Muldoon now warming to his task, ‘but I reckon she’s a real tough bitch. She’s certainly knocked the smile off the faces of the Bernstein boys.’
‘I’m not surprised if she’s usurping their throne,’ I said, realizing immediately that Muldoon would not know what I meant.
He just nodded vaguely in response. I probed further.
‘How does the protection racket work? Who set it up?’
‘Vic and this tart did. Apparently she sussed out potential…customers, mainly round the Soho area. I cover the territory with Anthony. He’s my back up. I do most of the threatening spiel and such.’
‘And the girl stays in the background.’
‘Yes. Not seen hide nor hair of her; just heard the boys grumble about her.’
‘Where can I find the lovely Gina?’
Muldoon shook his head. ‘Don’t know. Honest. They reckon she’s keeping a low profile for the moment. She doesn’t want anyone to know about her yet.’
‘I wonder why,’ I said, more to myself than my companion.
At that moment the girl entered carrying two grubby, chipped mugs of unsanitary looking tea. It seemed like my cue to leave. I certainly wasn’t going to contaminate my mouth with that brew and besides, I thought that I’d squeezed this particular unpleasant lemon dry. There was nothing more to learn from Mr Muldoon and I was itching to get away from the sight of the saggy fellow in his grey drawers. I rose from my perching position and slipped the gun back into my pocket.
‘Sorry I can’t stay to partake of the refreshment after all,’ I said to my hostess, ‘but I’ve business elsewhere.’
The blonde gave me a dismissive sneer.
‘You’re not going to the cops, are you?’ asked Muldoon, jumping from the sofa.
‘Not yet, Archie boy,’ I tossed over my shoulder as I reached the door, and then I turned and looked him straight in the eye. ‘But if you want my advice, I’d resign from current employment and lie low. It won’t be long before this whole business blows sky high.’
I left them to their foul tea and squalor.
Seventeen
It was nearly noon when the train steamed into Oxford Station. As I peered through the carriage window, I saw a deep-blue sky with the bright December sun slanting down on the ancient honey-stoned buildings, bathing them in what seemed to be an ethereal light. They glimmered and glowed in the sharp wintry air like mirages in a grimy desert.
Leaving the station, I entered another world. It was like a film set for one of those marvellous MGM movies which attempted to recreate ye olde England on a Hollywood sound stage. At any moment now Ronald Colman or Errol Flynn would appear.
I’d never been to this old university town before—my only brush with academia was at police college in Hendon—and I was immediately captivated by it. Part of the magic was the atmosphere, which was so different from that of London; it was not only the ancient buildings that led me to believe that I had stepped back into a more refined and genteel past. There was a tangible mood about the place—the people, the traffic and the shops all seemed unscathed by the drabness of the war. Indeed there was very little sign here that there was a war on at all. Life seemed almost normal.
It was 1938 again.
I caught the mood and strolled nonchalantly into the centre of the town almost forgetting my reason for visiting this enchanted spot. As I strolled down High Str
eet, an old soldier, a veteran of the First War no doubt, turned an old barrel organ; the cheerful melody floating through the air further enhanced my light-hearted mood. I gave him some coins and received a cheery toothless grin in return.
This, I told myself, is what we’re fighting for, each in our own way, a return to this approximation of unruffled normality. Nothing special or extreme but simple and gloriously mundane where food was readily available, blackout curtains could be torn down, children could return home from their far flung outposts, and so could the lads in the forces. We could get on with our lives without fear and sacrifice. There would be Sunday lunch of roast beef and proper Yorkshire puds, holidays on the beach, picnics in the fields and people could laugh again without feeling guilty.
However, my sanguine mood took a knock when I encountered three soldiers chatting outside a tobacconist. They seemed a typical bunch of young men on leave, but, as I approached, I saw that each had a serious injury. One had lost an arm, one was walking with a cane and the third, a short lad who looked no older than twenty had terrible livid scars down one side of his face which contorted his youthful features into a cruel mask.
The sight of these soldiers brought me back to reality with a severe bump and very quickly I shrugged off my sentimental musings. I realized that whatever the veneer Oxford presented to me, it was just that: a veneer. Beneath its shining surface there still lurked the harsh realities of the war. Suitably chastened, I applied myself to the task in hand. After a few minutes I spotted a taxi rank and got myself a ride to an address on the Banbury Road situated a few miles from the city centre.
It was a smart red-brick semi with a bay window and a tidy lawn. It was the home of Gladys Stoker, mother of Beryl Garner.
I rang the bell and waited. Eventually the door was opened by a tall, well-built woman somewhere in her sixties. Her blonde hair was turning white but it was still coiffured in a modern fashion. She had a strong face and bright, determined blue eyes which scrutinized me with suspicion.
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