September Song

by Colin Murray

  ‘George was right,’ I said. ‘You ought to make sure your dad’s all right. That was a nasty fall.’

  The boy looked uncertainly at George, who gave him an encouraging nod. After a few seconds of hesitation, Ricky moved slowly around me, going sideways like a crab, always with his eye on the gun, and knelt down by Dave.

  ‘It might not be a bad idea to get him looked at,’ I said. ‘Bangs on the head can be quite unpleasant.’ I looked at George. The quizzical expression on his face and the way he half-smiled at me suggested he had guessed that the sawn-off wasn’t loaded. Or he thought that I was insanely brave. The smile, though, said that he wasn’t sure either way and that he wasn’t about to risk anything. All the same, I was aware of a slight tremble in my hands that I tried to disguise by moving them a bit. And there was a cold, uncomfortable trickle of sweat dribbling from my armpits. ‘As far as I’m concerned this is all over.’ I waved the gun in Ricky’s direction. ‘I’d advise you to make sure he knows that.’

  George nodded, and I turned to go.

  ‘Oh, there really are some blokes who want a word with him. About his “business dealings” up West. I don’t know where they’ve gone now, but they will find him, you know.’

  George nodded again. ‘I’ll keep an eye open,’ he said.

  I sauntered off, trying for a nonchalance I certainly didn’t feel.

  I joined Viv Laurence at the gate. ‘Phew,’ I said, ‘you all right?’

  ‘More or less,’ she said. ‘Blimey, you make a habit of this?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Rescuing damsels in distress.’

  ‘Only in the silly season,’ I said.

  I gazed along Temple Mills Lane, but there was no sign of a maroon Ford Zephyr.

  A long shrill whistle sounded as a locomotive screamed past in the distance, and a gust of wind slapped some cold rain into my face. This had once, a long time ago, been a bleak marshland, offering pasture for a few skinny cattle, and now, criss-crossed by railway lines, littered with featureless warehouses, vast engine sheds and scrap-metal yards, it was just as depressing and desolate. Plus ça change, la plus c’est la même chose.

  The rain slapped me in the face again.

  I looked back at the little group huddled by the car, around the prone figure of Dave Mountjoy. It didn’t look as if any of them, even Ricky, had any appetite for following me. A damaged Dave and a deflated tyre seemed to have taken the sting out of them for the time being.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said to Viv, ‘my taxi didn’t wait. Are you up to a short walk to the bus stop?’

  She looked down at her less-than-sensible high-heeled shoes and giggled rather charmingly, but then she looked back warily at the group of Mountjoys and I realized that she was frightened and nervous.

  ‘Do you think they’ll let us on a bus?’ she said.

  It was my turn to laugh. We were unlikely to pass as respectable citizens out for a quiet Sunday stroll down Leyton High Road. My shirt, shoes, suit, face and hands were stained with mud from the scrapyard. Her blouse was very badly torn, and a certain amount of flesh and bright-red underwear was on display. I tried not to notice that she really did have impressive thruppenies.

  I took off my jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

  And then, of course, I remembered that there was the small matter of a sawn-off shotgun. The banks (and pretty much everywhere else for that matter) may have been closed, so an armed robbery might not have been very likely, and I’d never heard of anyone using a bus as a getaway vehicle, but I still couldn’t see the conductor being too happy about letting me on with that shoved down my trousers. On the other hand, he’d have to be a brave man to tell me to get off.

  I decided to disable the damned thing as best I could by jumping on it or something and then dumping it in the disused warehouse we had to pass. I started walking along the road with Viv tick-tocking along next to me.

  The rain had stopped, but it was too late for me. My shirt was soaked.

  As we came up to the warehouse, a maroon Ford poked its bonnet out from beyond the far wall and then slowly lumbered over the weeds and broken paving stones, through the puddles and the mud, bounced heavily off the kerb on to the road and then rolled to a halt next to us. The passenger window was wound down slowly, and Nelson looked out at me. He pointed at Viv Laurence. ‘Don’ look much like Ricky Mountjoy,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘he’s still in the scrapyard. You can catch him there.’

  He stared through the windscreen. ‘I remember you sayin’ you was goin’ to bring him out,’ he said.

  ‘I did,’ I said, ‘but you weren’t there to greet him.’

  ‘It was rainin’,’ he said. ‘We decided to wait in the motor. You can go and get him now.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve done my bit, and I’ve got what I came for. You want him, you go get him.’

  The windscreen continued to fascinate him. ‘That wasn’t the deal,’ he said.

  I shrugged.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘but I’ll remember this. And I’ll remember we owe you for Clive’s toot’ and Victor’s headache.’ I assumed he meant the bloke Charlie had biffed. ‘And that’s Clive’s gun you got there. You gonna give it back or what?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said and dropped the sawn-off on his lap.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘be careful. You coulda hurt my marriage prospects.’

  He hefted the gun and then pointed it out of the window, straight at me.

  I leaned in towards him and pushed the barrel of the gun to one side. ‘A word of advice,’ I said. ‘Be very careful who you point that thing at.’

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a dangerous weapon,’ I said. ‘You point it at the wrong person and you’ll find out just how dangerous. Oh, and you don’t owe me a thing. We’re straight.’

  He didn’t reply, and I stepped away from the car. He slowly wound the window back up. The light fell on its slightly convex surface in such a way that it was opaque. All I could see reflected in it was a dark, lowering sky.

  Clive slipped the car into gear, and it pulled slowly away. I watched it roll up to the gate of the scrapyard. It paused there for a few seconds. I could hear the engine idling noisily, and I don’t imagine it went unnoticed by George and the others. That was probably what Nelson had in mind. Make them aware of him. Give them something to think about.

  They soon drove on past.

  I shuffled over to a thoughtful-looking Viv Laurence, who had retreated a few feet. She took my arm, and we walked quickly off towards Leyton High Road, away from the Mountjoy boys and in the opposite direction to that taken by Clive and Nelson.

  I did listen carefully for the powerful purr of a prowling Ford motor all the way to the bus stop and all the while we waited for a number fifty-eight.

  But all I could hear was that strange, pounding sound in your head generated by the stress of unfinished business.

  SEVENTEEN

  Jerry was just a bit bemused.

  In all the time that I’ve rented the flat from him, I’ve only ever brought one woman back there, and now, having, it seemed, only just waved farewell to one after serving her breakfast, here was another, gasping for a cuppa and desperate for a custard cream.

  Unsurprisingly, Viv had been very quiet after we’d plonked ourselves down in the warm fug of the empty top deck of the bus. We’d done nothing more than steam gently and stare gloomily out of the front window after the conductor had taken my coppers and punched our tickets. He’d looked at us suspiciously but said nothing.

  I suspected that I had started to smell riper and more pungent than a piece of Big Luc’s favourite Livarot cheese by the time the bus stopped outside the Gaumont and we stepped out into the cool, grey afternoon. To be fair to Big Luc and to Livarot, the cheese does taste a lot better than it smells, which is not something that I ever expect anyone to say about me.

  Jerry was back from the Antelope and full of beer and bonhomie. He’d hea
rd me open the door and had insisted we join him.

  I’d been more than happy to do that. He had a very decent two-bar electric fire that could singe the hairs on your arm if you sat too close, and he didn’t mind stuffing the meter with sixpences to keep it going. He would also play jazz all afternoon on his mellow-toned radiogram. What’s more, he’d share his last tin of sardines with you. All in all, Jerry’s a pretty good landlord to have.

  I don’t know that he’s all that familiar with working girls, but I think that even he sussed pretty quickly that Viv probably didn’t have gainful employment at the Matchbox Toy factory or at the Caribonum. But he didn’t say anything or so much as raise an eyebrow. He likes to think he’s something of a bohemian and very open-minded. There may be some truth in that, but the real reason he didn’t say anything is because he’s a complete gentleman where ladies are concerned and just an all-round nice guy.

  He was still on a Bunk Johnson binge, and Bunk and the boys were still, as they had been that morning, wishing they could shimmy like someone’s sister Kate when we dropped thankfully on to Jerry’s chaise longue. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was, he’d always maintained, an antique, a bequest from his paternal grandfather, so I certainly understood his affection for the old thing. I felt the same way about Grand-père’s chair.

  Jerry busied himself brewing tea while I went upstairs to wash and change my clothes. When I came downstairs, cleaned up, a little, in a fresh shirt and my only other suit, they were sipping tea and engaged in polite conversation about the record business. Viv was telling him how much she liked Teresa Brewer, Rosemary Clooney and, of course, Dickie Valentine. Jerry was nodding thoughtfully, as if this was important information.

  I asked Jerry if he had anything to eat, and Viv looked at him appealingly with big eyes. She hadn’t even managed any breakfast before the Mountjoys had paid her a call.

  Jerry glided off to his scullery, and we heard him rummaging in the larder. ‘There’s a tin of corned beef or a tin of pilchards,’ he yelled.

  So it was to be corned beef and Branston pickle sandwiches.

  I took Viv up to my flat and found a clean shirt for her and showed her where she could wash. I was about to leave her to it when she put her hand on my arm.

  ‘I’m really grateful to you,’ she said, ‘but this isn’t finished.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think you do.’

  I held my hands out, open-palmed, encouraging her to go on.

  She coughed. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘and I haven’t told anyone this, but I think I know who killed those two kids.’

  ‘Call the police,’ I said.

  ‘You’re joking,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you should be. If I said anything, I’d have to go into hiding. Leave London. I couldn’t be a witness or nothing. Anyway, all the cops I know are taking backhanders. They wouldn’t be interested. Except to shop me to Mr Fitz. I couldn’t risk it.’

  ‘Fitz?’ I said. ‘James Fitzgerald? He did it?’

  ‘Who else?’ she said. ‘Not him personally, of course. But it was his blokes, I’m pretty sure. And he set it all up.’ She paused and ran her hands through her hair. ‘The thing is, I was walking past the Frighted Horse, on me rounds, you know? And I saw some blokes leaving that alley where the kids were found. I don’t think they saw me. They were black, like the guy you were talking to this afternoon. I don’t know if he was there. Anyway, they weren’t acting like they’d killed anyone. They were laughing, and one of them went back into the alley and he said something like, “That’s a warning. Pass it on. Next time it’s serious.” When they’d gone, I poked me head round the corner and saw it was the nasty little oiks who’d been beating on your mate, the pianist. They were both struggling to their feet, so they were alive then. I didn’t hang about and walked past, and about five minutes later I saw four of Mr Fitz’s men heading that way.’

  I was puzzled. I thought back to my first encounter with James Fitzgerald when he’d implied that I might know something about the missing drugs. And then Malcolm Booth had expressed his worries that some of his words might have been misconstrued.

  ‘And you think . . .?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘The boys weren’t particularly careful. Mr Fitz knew they were setting up on their own. He shops ’em to the West Indians. They deal with ’em for him. He’s in the clear. No gang war. They don’t deal with ’em properly, he does, and the West Indians get the blame. As it happens, your mate is around and he’s in the frame. So everyone’s in the clear and Mr Fitz is owed a favour.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling way out of my depth.

  ‘And Mr Fitz’s boys saw me, and they tell Ricky Mountjoy’s family that I helped the pianist and know where their stuff is so they come and visit me.’ She paused again. ‘And the worst thing about that is what they don’t know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She shook her head vigorously, and her hair fell over her face. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe I can help,’ I said.

  She shook her head again. ‘I’ll have a quick wash,’ she said, ‘and then I’ll come down for a sandwich. Thanks for the shirt.’

  ‘What’s the worst thing about all this?’ I said.

  She sighed deeply. ‘The worst thing about this for me is that I ran away from the Mountjoys when I was fifteen and I’ve spent the last twelve years trying not to be found.’

  I should have been happy.

  I’d woken up that morning missing three people: Daff’s daughter, Britain’s pale imitation of James Dean and a piano player with some nasty habits. Pretty soon, I’d added a fourth to the list – Viv Laurence.

  Now, it seemed, in a few short hours, I’d found them all.

  Most of it was luck, of course, but all the same. If that’s not the equivalent of picking the only eight draws on the coupon and scooping the pools, I don’t know what is.

  And though it is cheating to claim all four when two of them – Daff’s daughter and Viv Laurence – were the same person, it’s still not bad going.

  But happy just didn’t come into it.

  Philip Graham was, I hoped, tucked up somewhere, safely out of harm’s way, but Leroy Summers was banged up in chokey on a double-murder charge that he’d confessed to, and Viv Laurence was up to her rather sweet, if slightly worn, neck in ouble-tray.

  The corned beef and sweet pickle sandwiches were not consumed in celebratory vein, and the lukewarm stewed tea that washed them down tasted just like lukewarm stewed tea. In fact, neither Viv nor I said anything as we worked our way through the entire plateful. We were both brooding.

  Jerry located a jar of fish paste and smeared it on the last two slices of his Neville’s loaf. He looked at me accusingly. We’d just scoffed his tea. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re not looking for breakfast tomorrow.’

  ‘Breakfast’s in Costello’s. On me,’ I said, which cheered him up a bit. Well, enough for him to put a precious Louis Armstrong recording of ‘Basin Street Blues’ carefully on the radiogram. Sadly, even that failed to lift my mood. I really was brooding.

  I finished the last mouthful of my half of the fish-paste sandwich, licked my lips – not because it had been so tasty but to remove a few dry crumbs that had adhered to them – and realized it was time to be decisive. ‘Viv,’ I said, ‘do you have anywhere you can go?’

  She looked at me blankly

  ‘Well, you can’t go back to Old Compton Street, can you? Ricky can just pick you up again any time he likes. Best if you went absent without leave for a week or two. Till things sort themselves out.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought,’ she said. ‘Maybe I could stay here. Just for tonight.’

  ‘Well, tonight might be all right,’ I said, ‘but the Mountjoys know this is where I live, and they might well pay me a visit. Which means it’s not a long-term solution
. So, any ideas?’

  She gave a little shake of her head.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it some thought and make a call or two. See what I can sort out.’

  I did have a couple of ideas. My brain had not been completely inert while I’d been eating. It was probably the fish paste. Good for the brain, fish.

  The two bars of Jerry’s electric fire glowed fiercely as the gloomy afternoon turned into a gloomier evening. The little rectangle of warm orange light on the radiogram beamed cheerfully at us through the increasing shadows.

  Jerry stood up and turned on the harsh overhead light, then disappeared into the scullery, and I heard him feed a couple of coins into the meter. I followed him out and handed him two bob.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He nodded at his living room. ‘You going to tell me the story?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Just not now.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘And I don’t mind playing host here, but I am absolutely not putting on any Dickie Valentine. I hope that’s understood.’

  ‘Not even “I Wonder”?’ I said.

  ‘Especially not “I Wonder”!’ he said.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ I said and punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Can I use the phone for a bit?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ he said.

  I wandered back through Jerry’s living room and into the darkened shop.

  I called Jeannie Summers at her digs, but her landlady told me she’d been out for some time.

  I then called Les, but it wasn’t my day. He wasn’t there, but I left a message with the young woman who answered asking for Charlie and a car in the morning.

  For the second night running, I slept in Grand-père’s chair in my office. For all the events and people buzzing in my head, I managed to nod off quite quickly and stay nodded off for a good few hours.

  The three brandies I’d swallowed down in short order at the Antelope probably helped. I’d thought the least I could do was buy Jerry a pint or two and a packet of Smith’s crisps and a pickled onion, and all three of us – Viv swathed in an old black mackintosh borrowed from Jerry – spent a pleasant hour and a half in the pub.