Barnard listened as the doctor began to dictate the multiple external injuries visible on Evie’s body, and it was not until he picked up his scalpel for the first time to make an initial incision that the sergeant lowered his eyes and avoided looking directly at what was going on in front of him. He hoped that the doctor and the technicians were concentrating sufficiently hard on the task in hand not to notice how strenuously he was fighting to remain calm and control the bile which was threatening to overwhelm him.
‘Bit of a hangover this morning, Sergeant?’ the doctor asked with a sympathetic smile as he removed Evie’s internal organs and handed them to his assistants for weighing. Barnard nodded, not trusting himself to speak. ‘You can get away shortly,’ the doctor said. ‘She was killed with three stab wounds here, here and here, deep wounds and a lot of bleeding.’ He pointed to the sites of the knife thrusts. ‘There’s no damage to the head that I can see so you don’t need to witness any damage there. There’s some sign of rodent damage …’
‘I saw rats at the crime scene,’ Barnard said, his voice sounding very far away.
‘She’s been dead anything up to forty-eight hours,’ the doctor said. ‘Out of doors perhaps two nights, relatively warm, bound to be rodents. Surprising how secluded some of these alleyways in Soho are, isn’t it? So close to the main shopping streets. Makes it tricky looking for witnesses, I expect, that she was in such a secluded spot.’
Barnard nodded and turned away to pick up his coat and hat.
‘I’ll get back to the nick then,’ he said. ‘I’ll pass on your initial findings.’
‘You’ll have my full report as usual as soon as it’s typed up,’ the doctor said. ‘I’ll call you if I find anything more unusual.’
Barnard turned away quickly and made for the lavatory halfway down the corridor to the front doors, locked himself in a cubicle and vomited until nothing remained in his stomach except bile. Then he sat on the pedestal shaking uncontrollably for a long time with his head between his knees. For once in his life, Flash Harry Barnard did not know which way to turn.
It was fortunate that he had been given plenty of leeway to take in an interview with Ray Robertson’s lawyer before he needed to report back to the nick. When he had recovered he picked up his car and drove the short distance to High Holborn where lawyers’ chambers clustered around the inns of court. He parked close to Lincoln’s Inn and found the offices of Sinclair and Stewart a couple of blocks away from the Tube station and used his warrant card to demand immediate access to the senior partner Abraham Stewart.
‘We understand you are acting for Mr Ray Robertson, the owner of the Delilah Club, supervising the day to day affairs, I assume, as he still owns the place,’ Barnard said when he was ushered into the solicitor’s office.
‘Who told you that, Sergeant Barnard?’ Stewart asked. ‘It is not our practice to discuss our client’s affairs with the police except under the most controlled circumstances. We don’t expect detectives to walk in off the street unannounced. We expect appointments to be made and records kept.’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ll find your client the subject of an arrest warrant,’ Barnard said. ‘Scotland Yard is very anxious to ask him some questions and I don’t think they are willing to take no for an answer.’ Stewart took a deep breath and steepled his fingers in a way which reminded Barnard of DCI Jackson’s contemplative pose when something faced him that he disliked.
‘Can you give me any indication of exactly what these questions concern?’ Stewart asked. ‘My client has a great many interests, not just at the Delilah and not just in London. I would be happy to discuss your request with him if you can give me more detail of what you want to know.’
‘And how exactly will you communicate this information to him? Do you have an address and phone number? Is he even in the country? I spoke to his mother recently and she thought he might have gone abroad. Do you know if that’s likely?’
‘I’ve no information about a foreign trip,’ Stewart said. ‘But I do have an ex-directory number for him. You said you had already spoken to his mother. Do you know Mr Robertson personally? Or have you just had what one might call professional contact with him?’
Barnard hesitated, not quite sure how to interpret that question. ‘Strange as it might seem, we went to school together,’ he said. ‘We were both East End boys but we went our very different ways later.’
‘Are you saying that Mr Robertson might be more willing to talk to you personally than some other officer?’
‘It could be,’ Barnard said cautiously. ‘Do you want some time to get an answer to that question?’
‘Possibly,’ Stewart said. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘I need an answer today,’ Barnard said. ‘Don’t string me along. We’ve had three deaths in Soho within a week and Scotland Yard is getting very impatient.’
‘I understand, Sergeant. Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you before the end of the day.’
Barnard glanced at his watch as he left the solicitors’ offices and picked up his car. Mention of Ray Robertson’s mother reminded him of her poor health and made him wonder whether or not that had persuaded Ray himself to venture back to Bethnal Green. He had time, he thought, to check up again with the old lady on the off-chance that she had heard from her son. The traffic was unusually light and he parked outside her house twenty minutes later only to realize immediately that he had probably wasted his time. The doors and windows were now boarded up and it was obvious that Ma Robertson, in spite of her defiance, had been moved away. He got out of the car, taking his flashlight with him this time, and realized that all the houses were in the same condition. The demolition men would not be far behind and he had apparently come too late. Idly he glanced at what looked from a distance like secure boarding over the front door and was surprised to discover that it was not as impregnable as it at first appeared. Someone had loosened the fixing and made it possible to treat the boards like a door which could be pulled far enough to give a slim entrance to what remained of the house. Barnard glanced up and down the narrow street and could still see no sign of life, so he made a narrow entrance for himself and slipped inside. He guessed that if Ma Robertson had been removed unwillingly the house might not have been cleared very thoroughly and something of interest might remain.
Once inside, though, it was obvious that someone else had gutted the place. There was no furniture left and a thorough search seemed to have been made in every room and every cupboard, with doors off their hinges and even the fireplaces partially dismantled and soot pulled out of the chimneys to create a level of chaos that Barnard had not seen since he and Ray and his brother Georgie had rooted around in bombed-out houses during the war. The plunder then was bomb fragments and the remnants of people’s lives and deaths. Whatever had been sought here he could not imagine, but someone was looking very hard for something.
He shrugged in frustration and turned back towards the front door when he realized that there was a car outside and the sound of a door slamming. Within seconds the boards covering the door had been wrenched roughly aside and a heavyweight figure was shielding the daylight which now filtered through.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Flash?’ the familiar voice of Ray Robertson asked as he played a bright light into Barnard’s eyes and pulled the woodwork more or less closed behind himself. ‘What are you looking for down here?’
Barnard put his hand up to shield his eyes. ‘I could ask you the same question Ray,’ he said. ‘I came to see your mother, as it goes. I didn’t expect to find you here. Last time I saw her she was complaining that she never saw you.’
‘Yeah, well, life’s full of surprises as you know,’ Robertson said. ‘My mother’s in hospital and not likely to come out except in a box so I came to visit her, took her some grapes, as you do, and then decided to check on the house. That’s all. So you can feck off back to Soho and mind your own business.’
‘The Yard wants to talk to you about what’s g
oing on in Soho,’ Barnard said cautiously.
‘There’s a surprise,’ Robertson said. ‘I don’t think that’s an invitation I’m going to take up any time soon. What do you think?’
‘I think I should radio for some backup and take you in anyway,’ Barnard said. ‘That’s what the Yard will expect me to do.’
‘Only if they know I’m here and there’s only you knows that so far, I take it,’ Robertson said, his voice hardening. ‘I knew you were here when I saw your car. People will notice your bright red job but they know mine as local so if anyone comes down the street they’ll hardly even see it. This is my ma’s house after all.’
‘So you won’t come back with me to Soho?’
‘I don’t think so, Flash, do you? But you weren’t kidding were you when you said you’d turn me in if you had to?’
‘You left Kate alone with those bastards. She nearly died,’ Barnard said as the anger he had felt that night on the Essex marshes took hold again with unexpected force and he lunged at Robertson and caught him a glancing blow to the chin. But the older, heavier man had always been a fighter and he did not hold back. He struck Barnard efficiently with three quick blows to the face and the sergeant crumpled to the floor.
‘I was always streets ahead of you in the ring,’ Robertson said. ‘I thought I’d taught you everything I knew but it doesn’t seem to have stayed with you.’
Barnard tried to get himself up from the floor but Robertson put a foot on one arm and made it impossible for him to lever himself upright.
‘Listen to me, Flash,’ he said, leaning down to push his face into Barnard’s. ‘And remember what I say. The only interest I have in Soho these days is the Delilah Club and I only hang on to that for old times’ sake. Call me sentimental if you like but I’m not interested in doing it all again in the West End apart from the club. It’s all drugs and tarts and noisy music these days. I know what’s going on. I keep an eye on things and if they come looking to tax the club I’ll deal with them, but otherwise I’m not getting involved. I’m retired, if you like, so leave me be.’
‘Evie Renton’s been killed,’ Barnard said. ‘You remember her? Stabbed to death in a back alley.’
‘Misjudged a john? That’s a shame.’
‘More likely punished to encourage the other girls to fall into line and pay their dues.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Robertson said and took his foot off Barnard and helped him up. ‘You must be too.’
‘Yes,’ Barnard said.
‘But it makes no difference. I’m not involved and not planning to get involved.’
‘So you say.’
‘But you’re still with your Liverpool bird, are you? That’s OK?’
‘Yes,’ Barnard said again, and picked up his hat off the floor and dusted it down.
‘I’ll go first,’ Robertson said. ‘I know once you get in that car you’ll be tempted to use your radio. Don’t waste your time. You won’t find me.’
‘They won’t stop looking,’ Barnard said.
‘And I don’t suppose you will either,’ Robertson said and when Barnard didn’t respond he pulled the makeshift door open and glanced back at him.
‘I don’t suppose it matters if the door’s nailed shut again,’ Robertson said. ‘My ma says they’re bringing the wreckers in within days, the ball and chain gangs, going to do what Hitler never did. End of an era for the Robertsons and for you too, as it goes, I suppose. But we know where we stand now, Flash. There’s no going back.’
‘No,’ Barnard said under his breath, but he did not hurry back to his car. He stood for a moment by the partly demolished door taking in the boarded-up houses where he remembered boys in short trousers and socks around their ankles racing up and down the street with their arms out wide making aircraft noises and shooting off imaginary machine guns while the girls kept well out of the way. He had heard men who had fought in reality admit slightly shamefacedly that the war had been the most intense and exciting time of their lives and he could believe it. And he knew many only a bit older than Ray who openly regretted just missing the excitement of the biggest event of the century. National service which he had experienced himself was no substitute for fighting Hitler. But he was old enough to recall even more vividly the price some of the warriors had paid. Ray’s father had not come home and many of those who had survived never fully recovered. This street had escaped the bombs which had devastated East London early in the war and had resulted in Barnard and the Robertson brothers being thrown together as evacuees on a farm, and the forging of a relationship which still had consequences which he knew might derail him. Hitler’s malign shadow was still there under the surface and pulling down these houses would not eradicate his presence. Not yet. More than twenty years on the memories were still too raw for some.
He would report his visit to Bethnal Green back at the nick but not his encounter with Ray Robertson. No one else in the Met would believe what Ray had said but almost in spite of himself Barnard did. He would let it be for now although he knew that eventually he and Ray would have to settle their differences one way or another. There was no alternative.
THIRTEEN
‘I reckon that’s quite a good idea,’ Ken Fellows said cautiously after listening to Kate O’Donnell’s suggestion that she take some photographs in the Soho clubs. ‘Do you really think that the Delilah and the Late Supper Club would go along with it? Aren’t they rivals?’
‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ Kate said. ‘But if we offer them free publicity together rather than on their own they might go with it. We could throw in some of the others as well. One of the jazz clubs would do – some of them have been around since before the war so that might be interesting.’
‘It’s got possibilities,’ Fellows said. ‘I’ll run it past one or two of the picture editors and see if anyone bites. You can talk to the managers and see if they’ll go for it. But what about this murder in the gay pub? I suppose the fact that the criminals are still active might attract more interest rather than less.’
‘It’s odd that the Late Supper Club was launched just when there was an outbreak of violence and murder. Was that bad luck or good luck? You could argue it either way,’ Kate said. ‘Soho’s getting a lot of publicity but not necessarily the good sort.’
‘Go and talk to what’s his name? Mercer? If he won’t go for it it’s not really a runner. We need the Delilah and Mercer’s place, the old and the new to set it up.’
‘Well, I went to the Delilah in its heyday when everyone loved the Robertson brothers and flocked to their boxing galas,’ Kate said. ‘You remember?’
Ken nodded. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘You looked a bit gobsmacked, as I recall. But you also came back with some good pictures. That was a bit of a test to see what you were made of when I first took you on. I had a lot of the blokes telling me it was a huge mistake to take on a girl. They wanted to know how you would cope if you had to cover some sort of violence, a riot, or even a war.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ Kate said recalling only too clearly how suspicious her male colleagues had been when she first arrived in the office. ‘And how many wars had they covered?’
‘When I counted up only Eddie and I were old enough to have seen active service and we weren’t shooting pictures back then. We were shooting Germans.’
‘Ha,’ Kate said. ‘Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge now. But seriously I don’t think the Delilah is doing nearly as well now Ray Robertson’s taken his eye off the ball and his little brother is in jail. Anything which might give them a bit of publicity might go down well, especially with the Late Supper Club man breathing down their neck and taking their clients away. But first I’ll look through the archives and see what we still have from those days.’
‘Then you can see if it stands up with the clubs themselves,’ Ken said. ‘See what their reaction is. And I’ll see if I can find someone who would use it. If it lived up to expectations.’
Kate spent the rest
of the morning trawling through the agency’s substantial backlog of photographs, many of them dating back to the interwar period when Ken’s father had established a photo agency in a couple of rented rooms off Oxford Street, which had survived by taking portrait photographs of people visiting London who did not own even a Brownie Box camera but wanted a souvenir of themselves standing outside Buckingham Palace or the Tower of London in their Sunday best. The agency had closed during the war and Ken Fellows had taken over from his father afterwards and moved the enterprise into Soho and in the direction of news pictures in the heyday of the magazines which told the post-war story before the blossoming of TV.
She found her own pictures of one of the Robertson brothers’ glamorous galas at the Delilah, invitations to which were happily accepted by the great and the good. Then she picked out a handful of other clubs, dark and smoky, especially on the rare occasions when American musicians managed to penetrate the strict limits on foreign performers imposed across the Atlantic by the American unions and reciprocated in Britain. When she had enough she went back to Ken Fellows and showed him what she had trawled out of the files.
‘I think there’s enough here,’ she said.
Ken flicked through the prints and nodded. ‘Enough to see if you can get the Delilah and the Late Supper Club on board then,’ he said. ‘It will only stand up if you get them both.’
‘Fine,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll see if I can get in after lunch. There should be somebody there by then who can say yes or no.’
She walked up to the Blue Lagoon just before one o’clock, which was the time she and Harry Barnard often met for lunch not really expecting him to be there as the newspaper billboards were announcing another murder in Soho. But as if that were not an ominous enough message, the sight of Barnard already at a table filled her with horror.
‘Whatever happened?’ she asked, taking in the swollen bruises on his jaw. He shrugged and tried to play it down but she could see that he was still shaken.
Playing with Fire Page 15
