September Song

by Colin Murray

  I glanced down at the wristwatch Mrs Williams – Ann – gave me a couple of years ago.

  ‘Do you mind if we talk while we’re walking?’ I said. ‘Only, like I just said to your mate here, I’m a bit late for an appointment and they’ll worry about me.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. He turned to the big man. ‘George, you can have a cuppa at the caff round the corner. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.’

  George looked at me suspiciously, and then nodded to his boss and turned back the way we’d come.

  Dave Mountjoy snorted and indicated the big man with a backward jerk of his head as we started walking.

  ‘George doesn’t much like you. He still thinks you know something about them kids getting cut up. Thinks you’re connected. Thinks you might do the same to Ricky.’ He snorted again. ‘But I know who you are. I remember your dad. I did wonder for a bit if you was perhaps made of tougher stuff. But I asked around. So I know you’re not, and I know you don’t know nothing about it. Or very little. I don’t know what we was thinking, treading on eggs with you.’ He sniffed. ‘Your dad was a waste of space. A lousy painter and decorator who had to be taught a lesson when the job he done was so bad that I wouldn’t pay him for it. Bloody frog.’ He took the cigarette out of his mouth and a harsh, racking cough shook his entire body. He hawked up phlegm and spat into the gutter.

  The years hadn’t been kind to Dave Mountjoy. He still had the same shifty look in his eye and the same rodent’s features. But he’d developed a flabby belly and heavy jowls, and there was a yellowish tinge to his skin. A little lock of his white hair hung over his forehead and was stained brown from the constant stream of nicotine that wafted up from the cigarettes that were always clamped between his lips. His shabby, brown suit was a size too small for him, and his white shirt had seen better days too. It had the same faint yellow look as his skin. Maybe the scrap-metal business wasn’t holding up as well as it once had.

  I was surprised to discover that my indifference to him was profound. I couldn’t even be bothered to get angry on my father’s account.

  We’d nearly reached Wardour Street before he spoke again. I could see the scruffy old Duke of Wellington on the corner.

  ‘I want to know what you said to my old man this morning. He’s been odd ever since, muttering away about things forgotten years ago,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said dismissively as we turned into Wardour Street.

  ‘Come off it,’ he said. ‘What did you talk to him about?’

  ‘I just asked him about one of his granddaughters,’ I said.

  ‘He doesn’t have any granddaughters,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah he does,’ I said. ‘Your brother, he knocked up one of the laundry girls. Would have been about 1928.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ I said. ‘Someone asked me to see if I could find the girl. That’s all. I said I’d ask around.’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve upset Dad, and I won’t have that. He’s not been well, and that Jean wasn’t nothing but grief. She ran away during the war, and we’ve not seen her since.’

  ‘Jean?’ I said.

  ‘That’s what we called her. She had some fancy, old-fashioned name.’

  ‘When did she run away?’

  He shrugged. ‘Late forty-two, early forty-three? Dad was really worried about her. But he got over it, and I won’t have you raking it all up. All right? George would like nothing better than to be let off the leash, and one word from me . . .’

  ‘Why’d she run away?’ I said.

  He was quiet for a moment and looked down at the pavement. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he mumbled. He suddenly stopped walking and looked straight at me in what I’m sure he thought of as a menacing manner, a finger raised. ‘I’m telling you to leave it alone. For your own good. All right?’

  ‘Understood,’ I said, ‘understood.’ And I raised both hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender, to reassure him of my good intentions. Although he would have been fooling himself if he thought he’d scared me off. The only thing about Dave Mountjoy these days that would make you take a step back was the smell of stale sweat, sour beer and old cigarette smoke.

  He stared over my shoulder for a few seconds, threw a very terse, ‘Good,’ at me, turned and walked back towards Old Compton Street.

  As I watched him, I thought of something Jerry said whenever someone came on a bit stronger than was, strictly speaking, necessary.

  No one, I’m fairly sure, would mistake Dave Mountjoy for a lady – he wasn’t, for a start, anything like as fragrant – but, for someone who was just concerned about his father’s welfare, he was certainly, if I understood Jerry aright, protesting a bit too much. I wondered what there was to find out.

  I also wondered if our meeting had been completely coincidental. I assumed it must have been, as it would have been much easier to seek me out on home territory. Then I wondered what he’d been doing up West anyway. George didn’t look like the sort you’d take to the pictures on a Saturday afternoon. But, Ricky apart – and look how well things had worked out for him – the Mountjoys didn’t do business in Soho. They were strictly a local firm.

  Dave was probably just taking in the sights. And trying to find out which way the wind was blowing.

  TEN

  I was still pondering the mystery of Dave Mountjoy’s appearance in the West End when I pushed my way through the glass doors into the empty lobby of the building where Hoxton Films had its offices.

  There was that quiet, Saturday afternoon, musty feel about the place, the hustle and bustle of the morning long past. I stood there for a moment or two, grateful for the calm, before climbing the stairs to the second floor.

  Hoxton Films’ reception area was just as deserted as downstairs had been. Well, it was if you ignored the piles of large envelopes scattered haphazardly around the place. I pushed a few to one side and sank down on to the muddy-coloured battered old sofa.

  The desk didn’t look right without Daff sitting behind it, simultaneously swilling tea, smoking, barking into the telephone and imperiously handing out and receiving bulky packages from elderly delivery boys. Sadly, I realized that I would have to get used to her absence.

  I was beginning to feel the effects of my early-morning call. Lee’s ties were an unsightly bulge in my jacket pocket, and I pulled them out, before they bagged the material too much, and laid them on the sofa next to me.

  Les always reckoned that he got more done on a Saturday afternoon than he did throughout the week. Everyone else thought that he was just banging his secretary. As I lay back and closed my tired eyes, the distant sound of his voice drifted on the stale air. He was probably talking on the phone.

  The back of my head, where I’d been walloped, was throbbing, and I was working on developing a monumental headache. Closing my eyes helped, and I was soon dozing, not quite awake and not quite asleep, with a riot of chaotic thoughts roaring around.

  Jean Mountjoy, as I suppose she must have been known, was on my mind. I’d have to tap Mrs Norton again, to see if she knew anything about her disappearance. There was something odd there. The old boy didn’t strike me as the sort who got sentimental or upset about the past. Though I suppose he could just be going doolally.

  I should have been playing football with the lads out in Ealing, but I hadn’t gone to any of the August training sessions because I’d been in Paris. And I’d contrived to miss the first two (now three) games as well. I wasn’t high on Reg the manager’s ‘most reliable players’ list so far this season. Fences to be mended there.

  Mrs Williams – Ann – would be expecting me that evening as well. I wasn’t sure that I’d be much use to her in my knackered state. She was suspicious of my visit to Paris. Not that she had any reason to be. But there were fences to be mended there as well.

  And then there was Jeannie Summers. I had a few questions for her. And Lee. Ah, those God-awful ties. At least I wasn’t in bad
odour there.

  Inspector Rose, though, was a different kettle of stinking fish altogether.

  And when I opened my eyes he was standing in front of me, a sly smile on his face, tapping his pipe into the big, solid glass ashtray that was usually full of Daphne’s fag ends. Les was standing just behind him, and so was a roly-poly sergeant I remembered from earlier in the year. He was scowling. I assumed at me.

  ‘Hard night, Tony?’ Inspector Rose said.

  ‘Not especially,’ I said, trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn. ‘Bit of an early morning, though.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘How is the head now?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, touching the tender lump. ‘Never better.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said again. ‘I hope the conscience is in the same condition.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, slowly stuffing his pipe with strands of sweet-smelling tobacco, ‘just that you forgot to tell me that you’d been keeping a fatherly eye on Philip Graham for the last few nights.’

  ‘I didn’t know that would interest you,’ I said.

  ‘I’m always interested in people who may be material witnesses in a nasty murder, Tony,’ he said. ‘You know that.’ He clamped the pipe between his teeth, but he didn’t light it. ‘My sergeant here has a good mind to arrest you for obstructing a police inquiry or some such crime.’

  The sergeant, whose name I still couldn’t recall, moved forward a little menacingly. He was someone else who didn’t like me much. He had very bad breath, I remembered.

  ‘I’ve told him there’s no need for that,’ Rose continued. ‘You’re a reasonable man, and you’ll cooperate without all that. You’ll give us a helping hand with our inquiries if we ask nicely, won’t you?’

  I shifted uneasily on the sofa, unsure what to make of this. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘If I can help . . .’

  The inspector took the pipe out of his mouth, pointed the stem at his sergeant and positively beamed. ‘You see, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I told you that Tony was an upright and law-abiding citizen, keen to do his bit.’ He nodded benignly. ‘Well, now we know, thanks to Mr Jackson here –’ he inclined his head at Les – ‘where Mr Graham is currently, and we’ll be having a word with him later. In the meantime, it would help enormously, Tony, if you could let us know his whereabouts over the last couple of days.’

  I was acutely aware of his keen gaze. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘where do you want me to start? Thursday he was filming first thing in the morning at Shepperton. He turned up at the Coach and Horses for a swift half at about half one, and that’s where I caught up with him.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Tony,’ Rose said. ‘That your tie?’

  I looked down at Montague Burton’s finest dark-blue cravate, put my hand on my chest and patted it. ‘Course it is,’ I said, more than a little nonplussed.

  ‘No, no, no. Not that one,’ he said. ‘That one.’ The stem of the pipe shot out, swift and sharp as an assassin’s stiletto, and pointed to the badly crumpled pea-green strip of material by my right leg.

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit sudden for my taste.’

  The inspector looked me up and down thoughtfully, as though he was trying to guess my weight.

  ‘Would you describe yourself as a tall man, Tony?’ he said.

  ‘No. Your sergeant there is tall. I’m not,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t call you tall. Not tall enough to be a policeman.’

  I waited for him to say something else, but, infuriatingly, he put the pipe back in his mouth, took out a box of matches, struck one and applied the flame to the tobacco in the bowl. He made a few popping noises as he sucked on the pipe, and then puffed out a cloud of fragrant grey-blue smoke. He placed the spent match in the ashtray on Daff’s desk, then, still taking his time, turned, picked up Lee’s tie and examined it carefully.

  ‘That’s an interesting stain, Sergeant,’ he said, pointing it out. ‘Do you think that’s blood?’

  ‘Could be, sir. Very likely,’ the sergeant said.

  Inspector Rose folded the tie neatly and then looked at me. ‘The thing is, Tony,’ he said, ‘a couple of witnesses saw someone in the vicinity of the Frighted Horse last night. About the only things they agree on were that he was tall and skinny. And that he was wearing a particularly ’orrible tie of lurid green.’ He paused and puffed contentedly on his pipe for a few seconds. ‘I’m sure that it’s entirely coincidence that such a tie is found close to your person, but I’d love to hear about that coincidence from your good self.’

  I took a deep breath, stood up and told him most of what I knew. It didn’t take very long. After all, there wasn’t that much to tell. Lee the piano player was tall and skinny, and he’d been wearing that tie, and he’d been heading to the Frighted Horse. The boys who’d been carved up had knocked him about a bit, so it was probably his blood (if it was blood) on the tie. I even told him how I’d come by the tie.

  I admit that I didn’t tell him that Ricky Mountjoy and Philip Graham claimed they’d seen Lee brandishing a bloody big knife later, but that was only because I didn’t entirely believe it.

  I did, though, offer my opinion that Lee was not physically capable of overpowering two young tearaways and slicing them up. The fact that I thought that if he’d had a firearm he might well have shot them didn’t seem to me relevant so I didn’t mention it.

  After I’d finished, there was a long silence in which the sergeant, whose name, worryingly, I still couldn’t remember, did a lot of scowling, Inspector Rose puffed on his pipe thoughtfully, Les Jackson looked at his nails, and I sweated copiously.

  Eventually, Rose took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘So, where is he now, this piano player?’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘No idea,’ I said.

  Rose nodded and replaced the pipe in his mouth and bit down on it. The sergeant sighed and folded his arms.

  ‘So,’ the inspector said through clenched teeth, ‘where is this –’ he paused as if ransacking his memory for her name – ‘Jeannie Summers?’

  ‘At her digs, I imagine,’ I said.

  ‘And where might that be?’ Rose said.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ I said.

  Rose took the pipe out of his mouth again, cleared his throat and then sighed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine why I thought you would.’

  The portly sergeant coughed, and I found it difficult to repress a smile as I imagined him looking at me dolefully and saying, ‘Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into,’ while the inspector sheepishly scratched his head. But he didn’t. Instead he looked at the inspector, and he smiled. ‘What shall I book him for, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Preferably something that carries a very long sentence,’ the usually amiable Rose said.

  ‘Come on, Inspector,’ Les said. ‘He hasn’t done anything.’

  Rose held up his hand in a fist and flicked up one finger at a time as he rattled off, ‘Wasted police time. Obstructed an inquiry. Withheld information. How’s that for starters?’ He shook his head. ‘And I’m sure we can come up with something like “accessory after the fact” if we can get anything to stick to this Lee character.’ He turned to me. ‘How do you feel about that, Tony?’

  I shrugged. Neither of them had cautioned me, so I wasn’t yet under arrest. I wondered if I was going to be. It would cause a few problems with Mrs Williams – Ann – if I was in chokey instead of with her.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Les said. ‘Suppose Tony finds this bloke for you. Couldn’t you drop all that? He’s good at finding people.’

  The inspector sniffed. ‘Not in my experience,’ he said. ‘Still, I suppose we could turn a blind eye.’ He looked at me. ‘What would you rather, Tony?’

  ‘I’d rather be in Southend, watching the Orient, actually,’ I said, ‘but I don’t suppose that’s on offer, is it?’

  The inspector shook his head.

  ‘And you don’t really think
that you could get any of those charges to stick, do you?’

  He smiled wryly.

  ‘But your sergeant –’ Radcliffe, that was it – ‘would like to have a try, because he doesn’t like me.’

  ‘It’s nothing personal, Tony,’ the inspector said. ‘Andy doesn’t like anybody. It’s part of the job. You spend so much time dealing with rogues and villains, you start to think everyone’s a rogue or a villain. And they usually are. Me? I like you. But I’d like you a lot more if you could tell me where this piano player is.’

  I stood up. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if I can find him. I have a tie to return to him, anyway.’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ the inspector said. ‘The tie stays with us. It could be evidence.’

  ‘Not that one,’ I said and picked up the pink tie. ‘This one. He leaves them all over the place. I think he uses them to mark out his territory. Must cost him a fortune.’

  I nodded to Les and mouthed ‘thanks’ at him. He shrugged and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked even more lugubrious than ever.

  The inspector followed me to the door and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Tony,’ he said, ‘I meant what I said about liking you, but that only goes so far. You know that.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said.

  ‘If you’re not honest and above board with me, I will have him arrest you.’ He looked over his shoulder, back at Sergeant Radcliffe, then he spoke very quietly. ‘We both know those boys were supplying illegal drugs, and we both know that piano player was a customer. While it’s not unheard of for unhappy and dissatisfied customers to turn on their suppliers, it’s unusual. Most gang members – and these boys belonged to a gang – are attacked by other gangs. I don’t think this Lee is our man, but I do need to talk to him. Frankly, I don’t have time to go looking for him. I’m too busy following other leads. I’d like to, as we say, eliminate him from our inquiries sharpish. Andy Radcliffe may not appreciate your help, but, funnily enough, I would. It’s bad enough having to waste time talking to people like Philip Graham. But at least we know where he is.’ He sniffed. ‘You know you owe me a favour or two, Tony.’