‘You’ll have old Hellfire Jackson on your back if you subject him to many more ties like that, Flash,’ one colleague said, nodding at the flowery item tied loosely around Barnard’s neck. ‘He’ll have you down as a shirt-lifter if you’re not careful.’
‘Just seen him as it happens,’ Barnard said airily. ‘He took it in his stride. He’s got enough sense to know that I’m not a nancy boy, whatever else I may be. After all, he comes from a country where the blokes wear skirts.’ That drew a few snorts from the assembled crew and the peal of the phone on Barnard’s desk effectively stopped any further sallies.
The desk sergeant downstairs was on the other end announcing a visitor in the front office with an appreciative snort. ‘Young lady to see you, Flash,’ he said. ‘Name of O’Donnell. Very tasty.’
This time Barnard had to stifle an angry retort, hoping that Kate had not been able to hear that remark. ‘I’ll be right down,’ he said curtly, pulling his jacket back on. If she had come here to find him, he thought, as he took the stairs two at a time, she must be seriously worried about something. And he knew her well enough now to know that if she was worried she could do rash and impulsive things and that in spite of the million reasons why he shouldn’t, he would always feel he had to try to stop her.
Kate was sitting on one of the hard, wooden chairs in the waiting area downstairs looking tense and dispirited though she brightened up slightly when she saw Barnard coming through the swing doors which led to the rest of the station.
‘Come and have a drink,’ Barnard said before she could speak. He did not want to discuss Kate’s problems in Notting Hill, which is what he assumed she had come to talk about, within earshot of colleagues. With a protective arm around her waist, which she didn’t seem to object to, he led her out and round a corner to a pub which seemed to have just opened its doors. The lounge bar was empty and he settled her at a corner table and bought himself a half pint and her a soft drink, at her insistence.
‘My boss said go for a coffee,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be breathing gin all over him when I go back.’
‘So, what can I do for you?’ Barnard asked quietly, adapting to her mood.
Instead of a reply she pushed up the sleeve of her shirt and showed him her arm, which was bruised from wrist to elbow. ‘Tess and I got hassled by a gang of lads last night,’ she said. ‘They took exception to us going to Nelson Mackintosh’s cafe to talk to his wife. His son’s gone missing and Tess is very worried about him. He’s a very bright lad, apparently, doing well at school, and she thinks he’s getting into bad company. I didn’t recognise him at the time, but you remember when you paid some lads to look after your car? When we went to King Devine’s club?’
Barnard nodded, wincing slightly at the memory of what had turned out to be a disastrously embarrassing encounter with the gangster. At least Devine didn’t know he was a copper, he thought, and he had better make sure that it stayed that way.
‘I reckon Ben Mackintosh was one of that little gang. What was he doing out on the streets at that time of night?’
‘And down by all the clubs,’ Barnard said quietly. ‘Not a good place for a kid to be.’ He pulled Kate’s shirt sleeve back down gently and did up the button. ‘I was afraid something like this would happen,’ he said. ‘I did warn you to be careful.’
Kate gave him a rueful smile. ‘And as usual I didn’t listen,’ she admitted. ‘But there’s more.’ And she told him about finding Cecily Beauchamp’s body in the basement flat and about how she and the old woman’s friend from Portobello market were not sure that she had died a natural death.
‘Whoa, whoa,’ Barnard said. ‘You’re already suspicious about the police handling of one death in Notting Hill. Don’t tell me there’s another the police have got wrong. That’s too much.’
‘I don’t suppose they’re connected but Mrs Beauchamp’s son definitely wants to sell the house. Me and the girls are the only tenants left now and I expect we’ll be next for the Alsatian dog treatment. It’s getting quite spooky down there. Tess is getting really worried.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Barnard said. ‘Let’s take these things one at a time. As it happens my boss wants me to talk to our opposite numbers in Notting Hill to fill them in on what Ray Robertson is up to with Devine. It won’t be my case, and there’s no way I want to get involved with Devine after what happened when we went to the club. But at least I’ll be able to find out what’s going on.’ A sudden anxiety struck him. ‘He hasn’t tried to get in touch with you again, has he? Don’t, for God’s sake, get involved with taking his photograph if he asks. He’s a seriously dangerous man. If the lads who hassled you last night were all white, that’s a good thing, though it probably didn’t feel like it at the time. If Devine’s got people looking for you they’ll much more likely be West Indians.’
‘Looking for me,’ Kate said feeling slightly sick.
‘Men like Devine don’t like to be thwarted,’ Barnard said, his face grim. ‘When I talk to Notting Hill nick I’ll see if I can get you some protection, the beat men on the late shift can take a turn down your street, keep an eye on the house, look out for Alsatians and any other thugs you’ve annoyed. But really, Kate, you need to move out of there. And in the meantime, don’t expose yourself by flashing that camera around.’
Kate drew a sharp breath at that, knowing that she would be doing just that if Ken Fellows got any encouragement for her feature ideas. That was something she decided quickly she would not confide in Barnard just now. Work was work, she thought, and her future depended on it, but she would steer well clear of King Devine and his clubs. That at least, she felt, was a risk too far.
‘Will you find out for me what the police are thinking about Cecily Beauchamp’s death?’ she asked carefully. ‘I’d really like to be sure she died a natural death. She was dead posh but a nice old bird when it came down to it, but her son sounds very dodgy.’
‘I’ll see what I can suss out about that, and about the state of play with your Mackintosh man, where that inquiry’s got to, if that’s what you want. My mate Eddie Lamb will fill me in unofficially if I buy him a couple of pints if I can’t get anything out of DCI Hickman who’s the man in charge. But please, Kate, I’m serious. Notting Hill is not a good place to be poking your nose in where it’s not wanted. You and the girls need to get out of there – fast.’ He hesitated for a moment and then laid his hand on hers. ‘You know I’d be very upset if you got hurt, don’t you?’
Kate looked at him for a moment before she pulled her hand away wondering why she felt so reluctant. ‘I’ll be very careful,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
DCI Peter ‘Slim’ Hickman, who had agreed readily enough to see Harry Barnard that same day, turned out to be a man of such substantial girth that his body seemed to hang over the edges of his chair like a blancmange. But his small eyes in his treble-chinned face were as sharp as chips of anthracite and his scowl far from welcoming.
‘Vice, is it?’ he asked Barnard as soon as he came into his office, his northern accent reduced after years in the south to a faint echo. ‘Weren’t you involved with Ted Venables in the spring? Nasty business, that.’
‘Very nasty,’ Barnard said tersely.
‘I’ve not met your new boss yet,’ Hickman said. ‘Bit of a stickler I hear. Won’t go amiss after what went before.’ Barnard did not reply. There was nothing he wanted to feed into the Met’s gossip mill about his bosses, previous or current, and Hickman should know that.
‘Ray Robertson,’ the DCI said. ‘You reckon he’s seriously trying to get involved with Devine down here, do you? I wouldn’t have thought an old style cockney like him would have got involved with the blacks.’
‘I’ve had a lot of contact with Robertson over the years,’ Barnard said. ‘I don’t think he’s bothered what colour anyone’s skin is if he can see a profit for himself at the end of the day. He started off in boxing, after all, and they come in multicolours. And he’s got a long history of moving
in with existing firms and then taking them over when the time’s right. Remember the Smiths south of the river? They didn’t last long when the Robertsons took an interest.’
‘Your DCI said you thought a deal was imminent. You’ve got an informant on the inside, have you?’
‘Pretty much on the inside,’ Barnard said, thinking of Shirley Bettany’s welcoming arms. ‘Ray Robertson and his money man were apparently down here last night, according to my information, and he’d only bring his accountant in if it was getting serious. I’m sure you’ll be able to find out who was at Devine’s club last night from your own sources.’
‘I’m sure we can,’ Hickman said irritably. ‘Though there’s no love lost between us and the blacks. This used to be an easy manor to police. Now there’s nothing but trouble, the sex trade’s exploded, the violence is always just under the surface, both sides blaming t’other. We should send the West Indian bastards back home if they step out of line and King Devine would be top of my list. We’ve enough gangsters of our own without importing more. And now we’re getting beggars like Nelson Mackintosh agitating for their bloody civil rights.’
‘Right,’ Barnard said. ‘Isn’t he the one you’ve got for a killing? Some tom?’
‘We’ve not charged him with that yet. But we’re holding him on cannabis charges. We’re working on the other. You know how it is. It takes time.’ Particularly if you’re fabricating the evidence, Barnard thought.
‘Anyway, if we need any more help from you we know where to find you,’ Hickman said with finality, the short interview evidently over.
Dismissed, Barnard wandered back downstairs until he found the CID room and put his head round the door. ‘Eddie Lamb in?’ he inquired.
‘Probably in the boozer,’ a voice came back. ‘Just round the corner, you can’t miss it.’
Barnard smiled and glanced at his watch. It was fifteen minutes past midday, so he supposed it could be reckoned to be lunchtime. He made his way into Ladbroke Grove and found Lamb easily enough in the snug of the nearest pub, drinking alone at the bar and studying the sports pages of the Daily Express.
‘What are you drinking?’ Barnard asked.
‘I’ll have a Scotch if you’re buying,’ Lamb said. ‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘Had to see your DCI,’ Barnard said. ‘We have it on good authority that Ray Robertson’s hooking up with your man Devine. They had a meet last night apparently to agree terms.’
Lamb whistled between his teeth. ‘You’ll have to introduce me to your Mr Big,’ he said. ‘We’ve always been the poor relations down here. Maybe Robertson will bring a bit of the Soho action with him.’
‘Maybe,’ Barnard said, sipping his own Scotch. ‘Depends what you can offer in return.’
‘I dare say we’ll think of something,’ Lamb said. ‘So – are you taking the opportunity of calling on that pretty little scouse bird while you’re here?’
‘No chance,’ Barnard said. ‘She’ll be at work.’
‘What does she do then?’
‘She works for a picture agency in Frith Street,’ Barnard said.
‘Secretary, is she?’ Lamb persisted.
‘No, she’s a photographer,’ Barnard said, aware for the first time how Kate must feel breaking into a man’s world. ‘She’s very good, apparently.’
‘Nice little earner too, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Lamb said knocking his Scotch back in one and ordering two more. ‘I saw her, you know, did she tell you? She found the old woman in the basement lying dead in the garden. We haven’t got the post-mortem results yet but it looked as if she’d had a fall, or maybe her heart just gave up. Natural causes, I reckon.’
‘Yes, Kate told me. She was quite upset about it. Reckons the son wanted her out of the way so that he can sell the house. Might be worth casting an eye over what he’s up to. He must be keen to clear the place out if he’s sending thugs with dogs in.’
‘Yes, she came in here complaining about Stuttering Stan and his Alsatian but I guess she’s bent your ear about that, too. We know all about him. He worked for Rachman in his time, and I guess he’s latched on to Lazlo Roman, this Beauchamp bloke, or anyone else who’ll pay him to chuck his weight about, to be honest. Your bird should get out of there if she’s got any sense. The landlords always get what they want in the end, fair means or foul. Doesn’t mean this one bumped off his ma, though. She’s got a vivid imagination, that girl.’
‘Maybe, but it’s not all imagination,’ Barnard said defensively. ‘She and one of her flatmates got hassled on their way home last night, and she’s got the bruises to show for it. I’m not sure that was connected with the landlord, I think it was more that they’d been to Poor Man’s Corner, but I wondered if you could get a uniform to keep an eye on the Argyll Gardens place for me, make sure the girls are safe until they can find somewhere else to go. They’re searching for a new place but you know what it’s like.’
‘What the hell were they doing at Mackintosh’s place?’ Lamb sounded angry now. ‘It’s not a place for white girls to go, especially now we’ve got Nelson Mackintosh pinned down. He and his friends are rabble-rousers, nothing but trouble. No wonder the girls got hassled.’
‘Kate’s friend teaches Mackintosh’s fourteen-year-old boy and seems to have taken a shine to him. Bright lad apparently. And now he seems to have gone missing. Hasn’t his mother reported it?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Lamb said. ‘Black boys run wild all the time. I wouldn’t think uniform would give it more than a moment’s thought, to be honest. He’ll be out on the streets somewhere selling ganja. Like father like son. And he’ll end up in the same place.’
‘You’ll make sure of that?’ Barnard asked, though he reckoned he knew the answer without the bother. Lamb laughed.
‘We might even use the same stash of marijuana,’ he said. ‘Waste not want not, don’t they say?’
‘And what about the murder? Can you pin that on Mackintosh as well?’
‘Oh, I reckon so,’ Lamb said, with every appearance of confidence. ‘Slim Hickman’s a canny operator. And we need to do something to keep the local lads quiet, stands to reason. As your bird found out, they’re a bit on edge at the moment, and we don’t want that, do we? We don’t want a repeat of fifty-eight. A quiet life’s best all round. And who’s going to bother about another uppity nigger in the Scrubs?’
ELEVEN
The three flatmates found themselves at home that evening for a meal together. It was Marie’s day off from her job at the coffee bar and she had volunteered at breakfast time to cook the other two an evening meal. While she struggled with more pans than their tiny cooker could conveniently hold, Tess and Kate opened a bottle of plonk, a beverage they felt they should come to terms with since their arrival in London, while they watched the television news on the small black and white set they rented.
‘There’s John Lennon and the lads again, dodging the kids,’ Kate said with a grin. ‘The London bobbies don’t know how to cope with the girls do they? The bizzies at home took it in their stride.’
‘From what you say, the bizzies at home were a sight tougher and not nearly so bent,’ Tess said sourly. ‘Do you think the landlords pay them to take no notice when they try to turf their tenants out.’
Kate shrugged. ‘I expect so,’ Kate said. ‘From what Harry Barnard says, they’re all on the take, one way or another. And they don’t think twice about fitting someone up for something they didn’t do. In CID, any road. They’re bigger villains than some of the real villains, as far as I can see.’
‘Yes, well, after what happened to your Tom I can believe it. What I don’t understand is why you keep on seeing Harry Barnard.’
Kate flushed slightly at the disapproval in her friend’s voice. ‘I don’t want to,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just that he’s turning out to be useful with these problems we’ve got ourselves into. You’ve had the benefit as well, you know. We’ve got no help from the local bizzies, have we?’
‘And you don’t still fancy him rotten?’ Tess asked, sceptically.
‘Not really,’ Kate said, though even she knew her denial was less than convincing. Slightly to Kate’s relief, Tess’s interrogation was interrupted by a loud knock on the front door of the flat.
‘Who’s that?’ Tess asked, instantly looking anxious. ‘How’s anyone got through the front door and up the stairs?’
The knock was repeated more peremptorily and Marie poked her head round the kitchen door, accompanied by clouds of steam and the smell of frying sausages. ‘You’d better open it, la, but don’t let that feckin’ dog in, if it’s there,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave the bangers.’
Tess shrugged and did as she was told only to find a heavily built and smartly dressed man standing there with a white envelope in his hand.
‘Am I speaking to Miss Best or Miss Farrell?’ he asked. ‘I’m your landlord, Miles Beauchamp. I’m sorry we haven’t met before but I don’t have time to run the house personally as a rule. You know how it is? There are people who make a business of collecting rents. Could I possibly come in for a moment?’
‘I suppose so,’ Tess said, her voice full of uncertainty as Beauchamp strode past her into the living room, his expression a mixture of entitlement and disdain.
‘So this must be Miss Best,’ Beauchamp said, looking enquiringly at Kate. But almost before she shook her head he was looking puzzled.
‘No, she said. ‘I’m Kate O’Donnell. I’m just visiting. Marie is cooking us tea. We’re all old friends from Liverpool.’
‘Yes, of course you are, I can hear that,’ he said, the condescension deepening in his tone. ‘But you were the person who found my mother. That must have been a terrible experience for you. I’m so sorry it happened that way and it had to be you. But it was extraordinarily kind of you to be checking up on her. Thank you so much.’
‘I liked your mother,’ Kate said. ‘And she seemed to like me, though I don’t think she’s ever met a scouser before.’
Death Trap Page 12
