‘Just carry on,’ Yewdall sighed, ‘but I can tell you that if you and the other escort stepped back and let Arnie Rainbird push your victim to his death, you are all equally guilty of murder in the eyes of the law.’
‘It wasn’t the eyes of the law we were worried about,’ Magg said with a grin, ‘it was the eyes of “Legs” Connolly that concerned us.’
‘All right,’ Yewdall repeated, ‘just carry on.’
‘Do you remember the name and the address of the victim, Charlie?’ Ainsclough asked before Charlie Magg could ‘carry on’.
Charlie Magg shook his head. ‘It’s one of many, governor, and a long time ago now.’
‘Just thought I’d ask, Charlie. Sounds like an unsolved crime to me.’
‘It’ll remain unsolved because I won’t be signing anything.’
‘All right, Charlie, in your own time,’ Ainsclough said, ‘we’re all ears.’
‘All ears,’ Yewdall repeated.
‘All right.’ Charlie Magg paused once again and after looking to his left and right he continued. ‘So “Legs” Connolly is well impressed. I mean, he is well impressed, or, is he well impressed . . . I mean, is he well impressed or not?’
‘I would guess he was well impressed,’ Yewdall replied.
‘Too right he is well impressed, so “Legs” Connolly puts the word out that Arnie Rainbird is “all right” and the next time “Legs” Connolly wants another slime offed he puts Arnie Rainbird on the case, and Arnie is well keen to show how creative he can be. So, once the second geezer is overpowered he puts him in the back of a van and he and the escort run him out of London and out into Essex to the railway line where the Harwich to London trains run.’
‘Fast trains,’ Yewdall commented, ‘very fast trains.’
‘Very fast. Have you stood next to a railway line when a fast train is approaching?’ Magg glanced at Penny Yewdall.
‘Yes,’ Yewdall replied. ‘I think I can see where you are going, Charlie.’
‘So you know what I mean?’ Charlie Magg grinned menacingly.
‘The rails sing,’ Yewdall guessed, ‘a high-pitched ringing sound?’
‘Yes, miss.’ Magg grinned. ‘They sing, a really high-pitched noise; add a little vibration and if a geezer is tied across the line, he knows his number is up. I mean that train had that geezer’s name on it. The slime is pulled tight across the line with ropes fastened to heavy objects, like cars, so he cannot pull himself clear, and his neck is on the line and his ankles are on the other line, and it is not long before the train comes and the rails begin to sing and ring, and the geezer is not happy and is saying so very loudly and the rails are also singing louder and louder and then . . . wham!’ Charlie Magg made a low whistling sound. ‘When the train had gone the geezer was in six bits; his two arms and his head was on one side of the rails, his two feet on the other side of the rails and the middle bit of him is between the rails and the claret . . . claret is everywhere and “Legs” Connolly is well impressed at Arnie Rainbird’s creativity.’ Charlie Magg took a deep breath. ‘Then one day “Legs” Connolly is not there, not in his drum, not nowhere . . . thin air number, total vanishing act. No rumours before or after . . . no noise . . . no body is found, nothing, and Arnie Rainbird steps up and sits in “Legs”’ chair and nobody makes even the slightest hiss of objection. Nobody will go up against Arnie Rainbird, not by then, because by this time Arnie Rainbird is mucho feared. Mucho feared indeed.’
‘That, Charlie –’ Penny Yewdall pursed her lips – ‘that is very interesting, very interesting indeed.’
‘Certainly is,’ Ainsclough added, ‘it tells us an awful lot about the man we are trying to get to know.’
‘So . . .’ Charlie Magg continued, ‘Arnie Rainbird, now he is using his loaf and he says no more armed robbery, no more bringing in white powder, Arnie Rainbird says the firm is moving into people smuggling, that’s when he says the money is the same but the penalties are a joke. So we start by smuggling them inside containers on the back of lorries, but the customs people have a nifty gadget for checking them now. They can detect human breath, clever old boys they are, so Arnie’s firm switches to fast boats at night. They wade in from the shore and they get packed in like sardines right under the noses of the French, who don’t care. I mean why do you think the Frogs built that refugee camp so close to the ferry terminal, so close to the entrance of the Channel Tunnel? They did that to help get the refugees and illegals out of France and into the UK. There’s never been any love lost between the French and the English and the location of the refugee camp is proof. If the French wanted to help the UK Border Agency they would put the camp a hundred miles inland, but the camp makes things easier for Arnie Rainbird’s firm. So he takes ’em on board, crams them in like sardines in a can, and at night they tuck their boat in behind a cross channel ferry to keep it off the radar. Just as they are approaching Ramsgate or Dover they turn north and put ’em ashore near Margate. Once they are onshore they are on their own. Some make it to London and make a good contribution to the black economy, others get picked up and claim political asylum, and that takes years to sort out. So job done, and like Arnie Rainbird says, hardly any bird to worry about; few years max instead of twenty for smuggling H. I mean, use your loaf . . . but this is helping me, right? I mean I am beginning to look at an involuntary manslaughter charge?’
‘Beginning,’ Yewdall replied, ‘you are beginning to look at reduced charges. But we need more. So, you’ve still got a little way to go yet, Charlie.’
Again the man looked at the hut in the adjacent field, his eyes being drawn to it with some dread fascination. If he had had his way he would have burnt the thing to the ground, burnt it and buried the blackened timbers and all the ashes with it. Buried it all in a deep hole and covered it up with soil and let the grass grow green over it. That, he thought, that would be the only sure way but the boss had said ‘no’; the boss said that to burn it would only look suspicious, so clean it, scrub it out on the inside with bleach solution . . . the roof, the walls, the door . . . thoroughly clean it, wash away all trace, but leave the hut standing.
The man stood – that day he was dressed in jeans cut off above the knee, yellow T-shirt and blue sports shoes – and walked outside his office. He had nothing to do, nothing but answering the phone about twice each day and fielding the occasional callers. But the police calling like they had . . . they seemed to have gone away happy, but they had still called. After that the boss was especially insistent that the hut be left as it was. To burn it after the law had called, then that really would be inviting them to return, so said the boss. The man walked slowly across the rock-hard soil and parched grass, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun upon his face, arms and calves and delighting in the birdsong. He walked to the hut and opened the door and stood back as the hot, stale air within escaped. He waited for a few moments and then stepped into the old building feeling the floorboards give under his weight and hearing the loud creaking as they did so. The man scanned the inside of the hut, the roof, the sides, the back of the door. He had done his job, it was clean, sanitized, thoroughly scrubbed. He wouldn’t be going for a swim in the river one night, or going for an excursion in the boss’s motor boat out to the edge of the estuary where the river meets the sea, also at night, with an engine block chained to one of his ankles. He always thought that to be a horrible death. The crew on the boat do their job, none of them feel anything; but the bursting of the victim’s lungs as he is pulled downwards . . . and conscious, all the time conscious, that’s the way the boss deals with any of his soldiers who mess up or give him any grief. The man knew that the boss likes it neat, not a trace left behind. He took one last look round the inside of the hut. He felt he was safe. He had done his job. He was safe.
He ambled back to his office in the first field and he thought his lot wasn’t such a bad number really. He was just a gofer but he liked the solitude. He found he could cope with that and the greenery and the birdsong.
A man can get tired of the city, of living on the manor, and he felt he could get used to this life. His eye was caught by a hawk hovering above the next field. Yes . . . yes, he thought, he could well get used to country living.
His was not a bad little number at all. As jobs for gofers go, his was not a bad little number.
But the hut, he turned to glance at it; the hut should have gone up in smoke a long time ago. A very long time ago.
‘So.’ Penny Yewdall scratched the itch on the back of her left hand. ‘Did you know Arnie Rainbird when he got out of prison?’
‘Yes.’ Charlie Magg hunched his shoulders then relaxed them. ‘Yes, I was still in his firm at that time, I still had my uses. That was about . . . what . . . five years ago now?’
‘Seven,’ Tom Ainsclough corrected him. ‘It was seven years ago, last Easter.’
‘Cor, time flies, eh?’ Charlie Magg grinned.
‘Only if you are on the outside, Charlie.’ Yewdall held eye contact with Charlie Magg. ‘On the inside it drags, but you don’t need me to tell you that, Charlie.’
Charlie Magg glared at her. ‘So what else can I tell you? You said there were two things?’
‘Yes,’ Tom Ainsclough leaned forward. ‘What you told us about Arnie Rainbird was very interesting; now we want to know about the party.’
‘The party?’
‘The party, Charlie.’ Yewdall also leaned forward. ‘The week long house party up in Bedfordshire someone threw to celebrate Arnie Rainbird’s release from prison; that party where the girls were supplied and then kept against their will.’
Charlie Magg sank backwards and folded his arms, looking at the floor. ‘It was more like a garden party really; most of the action was in the garden . . . plenty in the house but mainly in the garden.’
‘Garden party, house party, whatever,’ Tom Ainsclough pressed, ‘tell us about it.’
‘Tell us about it, Charlie,’ Yewdall added. ‘It reached you, didn’t it? The question reached you, the way you sat back, folded your arms, looking down instead of at us. You clearly know why we want to know about that party Charlie, so keep working for yourself.’
Outside the agent’s room the rattle of keys echoed in the long corridor and a metal door slammed shut, followed by a second rattle of keys. Charlie Magg looked at the door in response to the sound.
‘You could be out in five years, Charlie.’ Yewdall read Charlie Magg’s thoughts. ‘Or in for twenty. It all depends on you, Charlie. Manslaughter or murder, because we all know the life-support machine is going to be switched off. After ten weeks and no improvement, it’s going to be pull the plug time any day now.’
Charlie Magg’s head sagged forward. ‘Yes . . . don’t you think I realize that?’
‘So help yourself; tell us about the party,’ Yewdall pressed.
‘You’re on dangerous ground.’ Magg took a deep breath. ‘You’re on very dangerous ground there and you are taking me on with you.’
‘We’re not asking you to grass anybody up, Charlie.’ Ainsclough spoke reassuringly.
‘And I won’t.’ Charlie Magg glanced up at Ainsclough. ‘I told you . . . no names, no pack drill, no signing of any statements and definitely no climbing into any witness box . . . no way, is that clear?’
‘Clear . . . clear as a bell, Charlie,’ Yewdall replied slowly. ‘Crystal . . . I mean crystal. So, again, why the fear?’
‘I’m in deep trouble if Arnie Rainbird finds out I’m even talking to you about him. I’ll get carved in here, I won’t be safe. I’ll go back to the association area and say you’re talking about Stevenson, that’ll keep me safe. But if you start investigating that party, well, then Arnie’s spies will know, they’ll put two and two together.’
‘We’ll be discreet,’ Ainsclough said, quietly. ‘Tell us, is Arnie Rainbird still active?’
‘He’s active all right . . . you make him sound like a volcano . . . No, he’s active all right, just ace at keeping off the old police radar but he’s worth a gander, he’s well worth a gander.’
‘We’ll give him a look but we need to know about that party, Charlie, we need to know.’ Yewdall continued to press Magg.
‘You’re like a dog with a bone.’ Magg glanced at her. ‘You don’t ever give up, do you?’
‘Not easily, Charlie,’ Penny Yewdall replied, icily, ‘and especially not when I’m hungry, and right now, Charlie, right now, I need feeding. I am very hungry indeed. So feed me.’
Again Charlie Magg’s head sagged. ‘What to do . . . what to do,’ he said to himself, ‘what to do for the best.’
‘The best is whatever is good for you, Charlie,’ Tom Ainsclough encouraged. ‘We can keep repeating it like a parrot in a cage, cop for ten, out in five or do the full twenty. You’ll be seventy when you get out, like you said, or you could still be a youthful fifty-five.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Charlie Magg once again looked to his right and then his left. ‘So what can I tell you?’
‘All about the party, Charlie, what happened to make twenty or thirty women keep silent after being cheated like that? Promised two hundred pounds for a night’s work then get bunged fifty for eight days’ work. Something happened there. What was it?’
‘What do you think?’ Charlie Magg sneered. ‘Use your old loaf if you’ve got one.’
‘Serious crime?’ Yewdall replied.
‘Very serious.’ Magg sat back in his chair. ‘Like the most serious.’
‘Like murder?’
Charlie Magg nodded. ‘Like murder.’
‘So,’ Yewdall clarified, ‘some person was murdered at the party up in Bedfordshire, specifically at the party seven years ago, which was thrown to celebrate Arnie Rainbird’s release from prison?’
‘Yes, that party.’ Magg nodded. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘Don’t want to be truthful. I mean, Arnie has spies, he has spies everywhere, so I’ll just say, yes, maybe it was that party.’
‘Fair enough,’ Ainsclough replied, ‘and maybe someone got topped at that party?’
Magg smiled. ‘Yes, maybe . . . just maybe someone got cooled.’
‘And in fact maybe more than one person got topped? Maybe two geezers got chilled,’ Ainsclough continued, ‘one tall, toothless geezer and one short, toothless geezer, maybe?’
‘Yes,’ Magg continued, ‘maybe it was two what got topped, but you’ll really need to quiz somebody on the outside.’
‘On the outside?’ Ainsclough queried.
‘On the outside of these walls, mate,’ Charlie Magg replied with a suddenly serious edge to his voice. ‘Not just outside of these walls but on the outside of my world, outside the blaggers’ world. You need to talk to someone who would get picked for jury duty . . . that sort of outside.’
‘Like who,’ Yewdall asked, ‘like who do you suggest?’
‘Like one of the girls.’
‘The coach load of girls!’ Yewdall sighed. ‘They were rounded up at King’s Cross, they were hard-edged street girls. OK, they’ll have convictions for something, soliciting, shoplifting, possession of a controlled substance. They won’t get picked for jury service. There’s not a brass who isn’t known to the police for something, but we need names and even then they’re unlikely to want to help.’
Magg paused. ‘They wasn’t all brasses,’ he replied softly, ‘not all of them. A few were good girls . . . university girls.’
‘University students!’ Tom Ainsclough sat bolt upright. ‘You are kidding?’
‘Nope . . . I was a Boy Scout once –’ Magg gave the Scout salute – ‘Scout’s honour. Some were good girls, they never did the other bit, standing on the street looking into passing cars, but what they were, were classy girls, classy call girls . . . or they were mistresses to some East End villain. They came to the party as well.’
‘Invited,’ Yewdall asked, ‘just to be clear?’
‘Told more like,’ Magg replied, ‘told that they were going to a party up in
Bedfordshire and arrived with their old man. Arnie Rainbird had something to hold over them, over the men that is, so they did what they were told and brought their classy girlfriends. Nice clean girls, educated, a bit nose in the air . . . a bit posh. I remember there were about five of them. None of them knew what was happening until it was too late and they were trapped for the whole week. The coach load of brasses arrived first then the flash cars arrived, carrying posh girls in the front passenger seat.’
‘Can you remember the name of any of the “good girls”?’ Tom Ainsclough asked drily, he not having met a street girl he disliked and having met many lady magistrates he did dislike.
‘Names?’ Magg smiled. ‘No . . . no names. I’m not refusing to give you names, it’s just that I never got to know any, but . . .’ Magg paused, ‘one girl I remember, I remember her well. People got to talking . . . they got to know each other. That’s how the five good girls met; they sort of found each other. They realized that they were not brasses and got to talking to each other.’
‘Relationships developed,’ Yewdall suggested, ‘is that what you mean, Charlie?’
‘Yes.’ Charlie Magg nodded. ‘That’s a good way of putting it. You have a good way with words, darling. I never was good like that, but the girl I am thinking of, I really took to her but she was well outside my league, well out of my old class. She was a school teacher, a really nice girl, so well spoken, really shocked by what she was seeing but a very nice girl . . . tall, actress good looks, long pins. She knew it. She knew she had got what it takes but didn’t put on the dog about it. She kicked up a fuss when she realized she wasn’t going home after the first night and she was available to any man who wanted her . . . all the girls were and so Arnie Rainbird had her slapped. He didn’t do it himself, he never does things himself . . . hardly ever, doesn’t like to get his old hands dirty. But there was an older woman at the party, brought in to keep the girls in line and she was told to make an example of this girl, the school teacher, so she was well slapped in front of the other girls and then she was given to the Baptist for a bit of twenty ten.’
The Garden Party Page 10
