Playing with Fire

by Patricia Hall

  ‘Well, the other thing you might help me with is some background on the man you were talking to when I came in, sir. He calls himself Minelli, I understand, but I’ve not been able to find out what he does for a living. He looks pretty prosperous. Is he in the club business, or some similar trade? Yours isn’t the only club I’ve seen him in recently.’ Barnard saw Mercer wince at the word trade but he evaded the question.

  ‘He was asking about the availability of tables next weekend,’ Mercer said. ‘He wanted to bring a party but I couldn’t accommodate him. We are pretty well fully booked for dinner, I’m pleased to say.’

  ‘So he’s merely a client?’

  ‘He’s merely a client, Sergeant,’ Mercer said. ‘Apart from his appreciation of my chef and my wine cellar I know nothing at all about him.’

  Wondering if he had been wasting his time, Barnard made his way slowly back up Frith Street feeling very little wiser from his inquiries and certainly no more confident that he would survive his interview on Monday professionally unscathed. Not far from the Blue Lagoon he was stopped in his tracks by a cry which was much more of a scream than a shout. The voice was female and the outcry did not decrease. In fact, it intensified and became shriller as Barnard began to run towards it. Just beyond the Blue Lagoon he found a group of women surrounding another who was writhing on the pavement.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, grabbing one of the spectators whose face seemed familiar. ‘Gracie, isn’t it?’ She nodded, her face white under its make-up and her eyes still horrified.

  ‘Someone ran past and threw something over Marilyn,’ the woman said. ‘We were talking about Evie …’

  One by one, Barnard recognized the women as some of the so-called working girls who had evidently assembled earlier than normal. Barnard knelt down beside the injured woman.

  ‘Have you sent for an ambulance?’ he asked, recognizing the telltale smell of bleach. ‘Go into the cafe and get some cold water,’ he said. ‘And call an ambulance now. Use their phone. If this stuff has gone into her eyes she could be blinded.’ Cursing under his breath, he grabbed hold of the jug of water someone thrust into his hands and tipped it over the woman’s face and hair, making sure plenty of it washed out her eyes thoroughly by forcing the lids apart. Gradually her cries of pain diminished to wracking sobs. To his relief the ambulance arrived within minutes and he explained what had happened to the ambulancemen who rushed to assist. He flashed his warrant card and told them he would stay with the witnesses to find out whatever he could about the incident and watched as Marilyn was helped into the ambulance and driven away.

  He turned quickly to the women who were still standing in an appalled group just outside the Blue Lagoon.

  ‘Did you see exactly what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Two men came hurrying towards us, walking fast,’ Gracie said. ‘I told you, we were talking about what happened to Evie. I wanted the girls to come with me to the nick to find out what was happening – of course you’re a copper, aren’t you? I thought I recognized you.’

  ‘Saturday night’s not the best time to talk to people at the nick,’ Barnard said. ‘They’ll be busy. There was a big football game this afternoon. Anyway, I’ll need statements from all of you after this. It’s an escalation. I’ve not heard of anyone using bleach or acid in that way before, have you? Did you see their faces?’

  ‘They had thick scarves pulled up.’

  ‘Give me your names and addresses and I’ll get someone to come round and talk to you all as soon as they can. In the meantime, I’ll go up to Casualty, make sure Marilyn is OK and get the beat coppers to look out for the attackers.’

  ‘Can’t you do anything to stop these bastards? We can’t go on like this?’ Gracie asked, her voice shaking with emotion.

  ‘I know,’ Barnard said, wondering if that did not go for him as well.

  Marilyn was still in Casualty when he pushed his way through the swing doors and tracked her to a cubicle where she was propped up on the bed, leaning against pillows with a young doctor examining the red burns around her eyes. Barnard introduced himself with his warrant card and the doctor glared at him as if he had thrown the noxious liquid himself.

  ‘I’ve never come across anything like this before,’ he said. ‘She could have lost her sight. What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘The girls reckon it’s a punishment because they’re not willing to pay protection money to these thugs. They’re not the only people being attacked. One girl has already been found dead.’

  The doctor looked at Barnard in disbelief. ‘She’s lucky then, I suppose,’ he said, nodding in Marilyn’s direction. ‘But I want to keep her in overnight to see an eye specialist in the morning. I’m not really qualified to discharge her off my own bat.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ Barnard said. ‘We’ll need witness statements from all the women who were involved in the attack. There were half a dozen of them but whoever chucked the liquid wasn’t a very good bowler. Marilyn was the only one he caught full-on.’

  ‘Perhaps it was me he was aiming for,’ Marilyn said, her voice hoarse as if she had breathed in whatever had drenched her. ‘There’s some mad bastards out there.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to come in to see you in the morning,’ Barnard said. ‘You’ll be safe here for tonight.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said, although she did not sound totally convinced, and Barnard knew as he turned away that his chances of getting a working girl serious protection in the West End on a busy Saturday night were practically non-existent.

  SIXTEEN

  It was gone eight o’clock before Barnard parked his car outside his block of flats in Highgate and the darkness inside reminded him forcibly that Kate was not there although he guessed that she would probably be waiting for a phone call. After seeing Marilyn safely transferred to a ward to await more specialist treatment the next day, he had gone back to the nick and reported what he told the control room was an accidental involvement in the assault on the angry prostitutes in Frith Street and handed over all the details he had of their furious reaction to the death of Evie Renton.

  ‘You’re sure this was the gang which is smashing up the pubs and cafes?’ the duty inspector asked. ‘It wasn’t just some disgruntled punter who didn’t get what he thought he’d paid for off Marilyn?’

  ‘The description of the men – two of them this time – sounded much the same as we’ve been told about at the Grenadier and at other crime scenes,’ Barnard said impatiently. ‘I told the women we would want witness statements and they didn’t have any objections. They’re seriously worried. Worried enough to ask for help for once.’

  ‘Right, I’ll see it’s followed up,’ the inspector promised. ‘Throwing acid is certainly novel.’

  ‘It could be lethal and it’ll put the fear of God into the street girls, especially after Evie Renton,’ Barnard snapped over his shoulder as he left feeling weary and anxious to get home. But when he got there he sat in his car for several minutes before turning off the engine and opening the door. He wished that he could have gone out to Shepherd’s Bush to see Kate, but knew that would be a reckless move. And in a split second, as he fumbled with his keys at the front entrance to the building, he realized just how dangerous his life, and potentially Kate’s, had become. A sliver of sound, no more than an incautiously indrawn breath just behind him, made him spin round just as something hard and heavy hit him across the back of the head and he fell forwards. After that there was nothing but darkness.

  He came round with a thumping headache to find someone trying to pour what felt like neat alcohol down his throat. He was lying prone on a sofa in a comfortably furnished room which he did not recognize, and when he managed to focus on the two men who were effectively holding him still with his hands pushed behind his back, he did not recognize them either. He took a deep breath but lacked the energy to speak until he had succeeded in spitting out most of the liquor which had been forced into his mouth, almost choking him
.

  He felt rather than saw a door on the far side of the room open and a third figure come in. His eyes slowly focused and he was able to recognize who had entered the room. It was only then that he began to make sense of what had happened – and was still happening – to him. His instant relief began to slowly damp down the cold fear that had paralysed him when he first came round.

  ‘Mr Falzon,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘I would have come if your people had asked nicely.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Frankie Falzon said, switching on the main lights and taking a seat in a comfortable armchair close to Barnard, crossing one careful leg over the other and adjusting the crease. His suit was fashionable, his silver tie immaculate and his shoes gleaming, and Barnard guessed that he must have been brought to Falzon’s large house somewhere in Mill Hill. ‘The Man’, as he was generally known among the Maltese, looked older than when Barnard had last seen him in an angry exchange with Ray Robertson, and he sat down with what looked like an ill-concealed wince in a seat facing the sergeant, almost knee to knee.

  ‘I doubt if you would have accepted my offer of a lift without a struggle,’ Falzon said. He turned to the two men who had attacked Barnard. ‘You can let him go now, just wait outside.’ The speed at which they obeyed him said all it needed to about the Man’s dominance.

  The Maltese looked much as he had when Barnard had last seen him in the flesh. Not tall, maybe a little broader round the waist, his hair slightly more silver, a grandfatherly figure on the surface, his face benign apart from the eyes which were as cold, if not colder, than Barnard remembered them. He guessed that the two men who had been sent to pick him up would face consequences for hitting him harder than Frankie Falzon apparently intended. He knew that the blow could have killed him. It was a tiny crack in Falzon’s armour and one that he knew the Maltese would undoubtedly punish. He had little doubt that Falzon would kill if it suited him, but he would see the murder of a serving police officer as several steps too far unless he regarded it as absolutely necessary.

  ‘Sit up, Sergeant,’ he said irritably. Barnard eased himself into a sitting position with difficulty, knowing that Falzon would be happy enough to have him at a disadvantage. ‘And now tell me how I can help you, if that’s what you want. I did hear that you and Ray Robertson are not as close as you once were.’

  Barnard tried to mask the surprise which he was sure was obvious on his face, but his head was not yet able to cope with subtlety.

  ‘We were schoolfriends,’ he said. ‘But those things don’t last forever. We went in different directions.’

  ‘And you helped convict his brother?’

  ‘Yes,’ Barnard said. ‘One of the better things I’ve done over the years. Georgie was always a bit crazy.’

  ‘So how can I help you now?’

  ‘There’s a growing concern over drugs,’ Barnard said carefully. ‘A young girl died after falling out of a window – you probably heard that. We haven’t even been able to identify her yet, but we know she’d taken a cocktail of illegal substances. What’s going on is growing more common and there are two people around who I can’t place: a man calling himself Minelli and another who identifies himself almost exclusively as Bob. No surname.’

  ‘And you want to know if I have any connection with them?’

  Barnard nodded, which sent another spasm of pain through his skull. ‘Is Minelli Maltese?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Falzon said flatly. ‘The name could be Italian. Many Italians came here to work after the war. But on the whole they prefer to run grocery shops than anything illegal. I have never regarded the Italians as a particular threat of competition here. Although they are well organized in Sicily and Calabria as you probably know. Perhaps they have ambitions in London but I am not aware of that. Although there seem to be people in London now who seem to be as ruthless as the Sicilians are reputed to be.’

  ‘So Minelli is not one of yours?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ Falzon said.

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘Bob, you say? I have no idea. I am still working mainly with the girls, sticking to the agreement I have with your schoolfriend Robertson not to tread on anyone’s toes. I have no desire to sell drugs. No desire at all. But I have not spoken to Ray Robertson for months.’

  ‘No one has,’ Barnard said. ‘But I was told today that his mother has died.’

  ‘Ah,’ Falzon said, crossing himself. ‘I too lost my mother recently.’ For a moment, Falzon almost aged visibly before he gave himself a shake and seemed to return to the conversation, reluctantly. ‘I do know that the rising trade in drugs is causing your colleagues at Scotland Yard some concern. I’m told they are planning to set up a special unit to clamp down on drugs, new ones as well as marijuana and heroin, the old staples. There is instability in Soho suddenly, as you know, threats and even murder. That is not good for my trade. It tends to keep the customers away.’

  Barnard knew better than to ask how Falzon came to be privy to information from the Yard which few in the local police stations had access to, though in his experience this was not unusual. And he wondered whether the new unit being set up to tackle drugs would be quite as amenable to the sort of accommodations which had been current for years between Falzon and the Robertson brothers and some senior officers in the force. Now he had met DI Jamieson, an ambitious young man with his eyes firmly focused on his own career and the expanding drug trade, he doubted if relationships would be as cosy as they had previously been. The new drug squad would want to do well and be seen to be doing well and the effects would be felt by the rest of the force as well as the crooks moving into the area with their new products and customers evidently ready and willing to try them. Jamieson would have mixed feelings about the trade: the dealers’ expanding market was a possibly lethal threat to users but a beckoning opportunity for him to shine.

  Barnard looked at the man who sat so close to him that he could see the blood pulsing at his temple and realized that Falzon was very ill and that he knew himself that he was very ill. If he lost his grip on his empire with Ray Robertson’s attention already apparently fading, the current uncertainty around Soho could only grow and violence increase as their successors fought for a legacy from their predecessors’ power and profits. How many more deaths might follow, Barnard hardly dare imagine.

  ‘Can I ask you a favour?’ Barnard asked, suddenly feeling very tired.

  ‘You can ask, Sergeant,’ Falzon said, though without much sign of enthusiasm.

  ‘Will you talk to Ray Robertson? You’ve rubbed along together for years without too much friction. Can’t you discuss how you might get along together for a bit longer, just long enough to see if you can hold these newcomers off between you until we’ve got on top of the drug problem and the violence? It would be doing everyone a favour.’

  Falzon did not reply for a moment, the chilly eyes inscrutable, and Barnard was about to dismiss his own suggestion as an ill-advised joke when the Maltese nodded almost imperceptibly and his face sagged again into a picture of old age.

  ‘Find out when his mother’s funeral is,’ Falzon whispered, his voice faltering. ‘Let me know and I will be there to pay my respects.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Falzon said.

  Barnard still hesitated for a moment as possible disastrous consequences swirled through his imagination like bad dreams.

  ‘No violence?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘We are not savages,’ Falzon said, getting to his feet with obvious difficulty and turning to the door. ‘My men will take you home.’

  He did not look back.

  A convoy of large and comfortable limousines had travelled in close formation through south London from their gathering point close to the offices of the Rainbirds’ agent in Charlotte Street without excessive speed or fuss. Kevin Dunne had told them where to wait when Kate rang him, although she hesitated before she dialled, thinking for
a moment that the number seemed familiar although she could not remember why, and after the initial excitement on Dave Donovan’s part at experiencing the sort of luxury Bentleys and Jags offered, they both settled down to enjoy what the driver had said would be a three-quarters-of-an-hour drive to a village close to Godalming. It was there that Jason Destry had bought his house and, according to the quickly shared gossip exchanged with some of the other guests en route, was planning some major building works after the celebration party was over. It was, they were told by those who had been there before, a large, rambling house, but long neglected with part of it fallen into complete disrepair. He had, it seemed, made the restoration of the swimming pool a top priority. The October evening was not especially warm but some people had apparently brought their swimming gear. Kate kept quietly to her determination that there was no way she would be persuaded to step out of her lime green silk to doggie paddle around a chilly pool. That was not her idea of a party.

  The cars, on time, eventually pulled up in a phalanx alongside a series of flaming torches at the foot of a broad flight of stairs leading to the front door which was flung invitingly open. Jason Destry himself stood at the top of the stairs in his signature red jacket and personally welcomed each guest leaving staff to take coats and usher guests into spacious rooms where drinks were being served. It could, Kate thought, look much like the many parties and receptions which had been held here over the years if you kept your eyes away from the cracked plaster and the flaking paint, but even from the drive it was obvious this was different. She doubted very much that previous owners had greeted their guests with rock and roll played at a volume that could probably be heard in Central London.