Spotted last night in his favourite haunt, the Black Bess in Hounslow, Jimmy “The Suit” Calhoun. The feared king of West London’s underworld was released this week after a three year stretch in Pentonville for the injuries inflicted on “Weasel” Mercer, leader of a rival gang in Chelsea. One of Mercer’s ears was slashed off with a cut-throat razor said to have been wielded by Calhoun himself in the fracas behind Stamford Bridge in 2005. Our crime correspondent, Phil Kingston, writes that Calhoun’s reappearance will be viewed in some quarters as a declaration of intent considering that Mercer has taken over much of his territory in the three years since. Nicknamed The Suit for his taste in expensive clothes, Calhoun was alleged to be making millions in protection, “putting the arm” on pubs, betting shops and restaurants south of the river, but his funds were never traced. A police source said Scotland Yard will deal vigorously with any revival of the out and out gang warfare of the recent past.
Herbie dropped the paper. No question: the picture was of him. It hadn’t been Jimmy Calhoun in the Black Bess last night. It had been Herbie Collins. How could they get it so wrong?
He was shaking. He turned the paper over so that no one else would see the picture, thinking as he did so that he couldn’t stop a million other readers from seeing it. He picked up his glass and had to grip it with both hands. People were going to think he was an underworld king, a vicious hoodlum who’d slashed off another man’s ear and been locked away for three years. He could ask the paper to print a correction, he supposed, but really the damage to his reputation was done.
With a sense of doom he pieced together the clues that made sense of this. The people in the Black Bess had looked at him in his suit and made comments like “uncanny” and “you could have fooled me”. They’d stared at him in a way he’d never experienced before, and the explanation could only be that he resembled the real Jimmy Calhoun. Everyone is supposed to have a double somewhere in the world. His unfortunately happened to be the most vicious man in London.
His thoughts moved on to Chloe. It was hard to credit that such a stunningly attractive woman should have got into bad company – the worst, in fact. Clearly she felt some loyalty to Calhoun or she wouldn’t be working for him. Herbie could only suppose money had been the turn-on. Money and power are said to be irresistible to women. She’d gone to all the trouble of seeking out a double, someone to take the risk of sitting in that pub with the rest of Calhoun’s henchmen, symbolically reclaiming his manor, an act of provocation that could have resulted in death.
Herbie shuddered. Good thing he hadn’t been aware how dangerous it was.
Still, he’d carried it off, and carried off five grand and the Armani suit. Pity he hadn’t carried off Chloe as well, but that would have been pushing it, as she had pointed out.
Three weeks passed and he heard no more from Chloe. He supposed he’d served his purpose and been taken off the payroll. The trouble was that he couldn’t get Chloe out of his mind. She was a lovely, misguided woman seduced by money and power, he’d convinced himself. How could she respect Calhoun after he’d behaved in such a cowardly fashion, letting someone else double for him and risk being killed?
He’d thrown away the aftershave she’d called cheap. What a fool he’d been to use it. He ought to have expected such a classy woman to know it was third-rate.
Thinking about her constantly, he went to Harrods and purchased an aftershave that cost sixty pounds. It was called Je t’adore. He also bought a new tie, pure silk, by Galliano.
That evening, in what he now thought of as his slob clothes, the jeans and the Chelsea shirt, he was in his local with Paddy and the others watching football on the big screen TV and trying to forget Chloe. At half-time there was a short news bulletin. None of them paid much attention. Herbie only caught the item when it was almost through:
“. . . are treating it as a gangland killing. Mercer, known as the Weasel, had become increasingly powerful in recent years and taken over much of the so-called empire formerly run by Jimmy the Suit Calhoun, who was released from prison last month after serving three years for grievous bodily harm. Calhoun’s present whereabouts are unknown.”
Herbie didn’t stay for the second half. He told the others he was meeting a friend.
At home he turned on the 10.30 news and got the full story. Someone had pumped two bullets into Mercer’s head in a barber’s shop in Fulham. The killer had made his escape in a silver Porsche.
Herbie’s first reaction was immense relief. He’d not felt safe since his picture had been in the paper. It had been no fun walking the streets of West London wondering if one of the Weasel’s mob would mistake him for Calhoun. The killing of the Weasel had to be good news.
But it wasn’t.
The more Herbie pondered the changed situation, the more alarming it became. The Weasel was dead, but his people weren’t going to disband. Gang warfare had broken out. Anyone with a resemblance to Calhoun was in mortal danger.
Moreover, as the TV news had strongly hinted, Calhoun was the obvious suspect for the murder of the Weasel. Every copper in London would be on the lookout.
His situation was perilous.
He decided he needed protection. He was entitled to it. After all, he hadn’t asked to become involved with Calhoun’s mob. They’d pressganged him. To put it better, he’d been snared in a honey trap.
OK, they’d paid him good money, but they hadn’t told him his life was on the line. They had to understand the consequences of their actions. He didn’t have much confidence in approaching them, but he reckoned if he could appeal to Chloe’s conscience she might have some influence. After all, she’d hinted at more than just monetary rewards. He still believed she fancied him.
He waited till after dark the next evening, when he felt safer out on the streets. He would have taken a taxi, but he didn’t know Chloe’s address except that it had been somewhere on Richmond Hill. He’d decided to walk, wearing the suit and the new tie and the Je t’adore.
The house was higher up the steep hill than he remembered. He’d been on cloud nine when he’d come here before. Tonight the place seemed to be in darkness. He hoped she was home. As he opened the gate and walked up the small path towards the porch a pair of coachlamps came on and a security light dazzled him.
A voice at his side said, “What do you want?”
He turned to find himself almost nose to nose with the scary Brady.
Should have realised Chloe’s house would be under guard, he thought. “I, em –”
Brady cut in, his tone and manner transformed. “It’s you, boss. Sorry. Didn’t expect you so early.”
The new tie, the artificial light or the unscheduled appearance. Whatever it was, Brady himself had fallen for it.
Herbie shrugged and smoothly got into character. “Make yourself useful and let me in. Is she home?”
“Yes, boss.” Brady produced a key and opened the door.
Herbie stepped inside. “See we’re not disturbed.”
“You bet.” The door closed.
Chloe’s voice called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s OK,” Herbie called back. “It’s me.”
“Hey, what a wonderful surprise!” She came into the hall and hugged him. Then she stood back and smoothed her hand under his tie. “This is new. Cool. And you smell so nice. Someone knows how to turn a girl on.”
He’d been rehearsing a little speech about the dangers he was in now that the Weasel had been murdered, but it would have to wait. Chloe was still holding his tie, loosening it. She said, “Shall we go upstairs?”
Herbie said, “Why not?”
And that was how he finally got his benefit night. Deceitful? Yes. Unforgivable? No. Not in the light of what happened. Two or three times she said, “You’re amazing. They should lock you up more often. I swear you’re bigger than ever.”
He said, “It’s because of you. So amazing. I’ve waited so long for this.” He was coming to his third climax when there was a bang
like a car backfiring.
Chloe said, “Was that in my head, or did you hear it too?”
“It was out in the street.”
“Yes. Hold me closer, Jimmy. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t, but he felt compelled to say, “Actually, I’m Herbie.”
She was crying out in ecstasy.
Finally the moment passed and she said, “You were kidding, of course.”
“No.” He paused. “I did say I’d like to see you again.”
He was prepared for the backlash and he deserved it. But she said nothing to him. Instead she reached for the phone at her bedside and pressed one of the buttons. “Brady, was that a gun going off just now?”
Herbie was so close that he heard every word of Brady’s answer.
“It’s OK, Chloe. I dealt with it.”
“What was it?”
“Only that little runt we used as a double. He tried to get past me, making out he was the boss, so I totalled him.”
“Oh my God! Killed him?”
“Put one through his head. No problem. He was a nobody. I’ll take care of the body.”
She put down the phone. She had her hand to her mouth. “The dumbfuck shot Jimmy. We’re all finished.”
“I’m not finished,” Herbie said. “But I could have been. Seems to me I’ve had a lucky escape.”
“We were all on his payroll.”
“Do you know where he kept the money?”
“Various accounts under other names.”
“You have the details?”
“I know where to look for them. But Jimmy always collected the cash in person.”
Herbie folded his arms and grinned. “Then it looks as if you’re going to need my help.”
There was a long pause. Chloe’s eyes widened. “Would you?”
“No one else needs to know he’s gone,” Herbie said. “Not even Brady. Let him carry on thinking he murdered me. I’ll feel safer that way.”
“You’ll have to practise the signatures he used.”
“I can do that.”
“And if you’re going to carry this off, you’ll have to take over his life.”
“And all that goes with it,” Herbie said, stretching his limbs.
The police never succeeded in solving the murder of The Weasel, or the disappearance of Herbie Collins. But they earned some praise when the crime rate in West London dipped dramatically. The Calhoun gang seemed to have lost interest in armed robberies and protection rackets. The probation service said it spoke volumes for prison as a instrument of reform.
Herbie moved in with Chloe and found no difficulty adapting to the lifestyle of a millionaire ex-crook. On a Saturday he was often seen in the directors’ box at Chelsea and he’d pass the evenings in the Black Bess with his friends. The nights were always spent with Chloe and the last thing she would whisper to him before falling asleep was always, “You’re the best Suit.”
THE MAN WHO JUMPED FOR ENGLAND
I laughed when I was told. I took it for a party joke. There was nothing athletic about him. People put on weight when they get older and they shrink a bit, but not a lot. Willy Plumridge was five-two in his shoes and the shape of a barrel. His waistline matched his height. If Sally, my hostess, had told me Willy sang at Covent Garden or swam the Channel, I’d have taken her word for it. Jumped for England? I couldn’t see it.
“High jump?” I asked Sally with mock seriousness.
She shrugged and spread her hands. She didn’t follow me at all.
“They’re really big men,” I said. “You must have watched them. If you’re seven feet tall, there are two sports open to you – high-jumping and basketball.”
“Maybe it was the long jump.”
“Then you’re dealing in speed as well as size. They’re sprinters with long legs. Look at the length of his. And don’t mention triple jumping or the pole vault.”
“Why don’t you ask him which it was?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“He’d think I was taking the piss.”
“Well,” she said. “All the time I’ve known him – and that’s ten years at least – people have been telling me he once jumped for England.”
“In the Olympics?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Bunjee-jumping, I could believe.”
“Is that an international sport?”
“Oh, come on!”
Sally said, “Why don’t I introduce you? Then maybe he’ll tell you himself.”
So I met Willy Plumridge, shook the hand of the man who jumped for England. I can’t say his grip impressed me. It was like handling chipolatas. He was friendly, though, and willing to talk. I didn’t ask him straight out. I came at it obliquely.
“Have we met before? I seem to know your face.”
“Don’t know yours, sport,” he said, “and my memory is good.”
“Could be from way back, like school, or college.”
“I doubt it, unless you were in Melbourne.”
“Melbourne, Australia?” My hopes soared. If he was an Aussie, I’d nailed the lie already.
“Yep. That’s where I did my schooling. My Dad worked for an Australian bank. The family moved there when I was nine years old.”
“You’re English?”
“Through and through.”
Not to be daunted, I tried another tack. “They like their sport in Australia.”
“And how,” he said.
“It’s all right if you’re athletic, but it wouldn’t do for me,” I said. “I was always last in the school cross-country.”
“If you were anything like me,” Willy said, “you stopped halfway round for a smoke. Speaking of which, do you have one on you? I left my pack in the car.”
I produced one for him.
“You’re a pal.”
“If I am,” I said, “I’m honoured.”
That first dialogue ended there because someone else needed to be introduced and we were separated. Willy waved goodbye with the fag between his fingers.
“Any clues?” Sally asked me.
“Nothing much. He grew up in Australia, but he’s English all right.”
She laughed. “That’s half of it, then. Next time, ask about the jumping.”
Willy Plumridge and his jumping interrupted my sleep that night. I woke after about an hour and couldn’t get him out of my mind. There had to be some sport that suited a stunted, barrel-like physique. I thought of ski-jumping, an event the English have never excelled at. Years ago there was all that fuss about Eddie the Eagle, that likeable character who tried the jump in Calgary and scored less than half the points of any other competitor. A man of Willy’s stature would surely have attracted some attention if he’d put on skis. The thought of Willy in skintight Lycra wasn’t nice. It was another hour before I got any sleep.
I knew I wouldn’t relax until I’d got the answer. I called Sally next morning. “Is it possible he did winter sports?”
“Who?”
“Willy Plumridge.”
“Are you still on about him? Why don’t you look him up if you’re so bothered about this?”
“Hey, that’s an idea.”
I went to the reference library and started on the sports section, checking the names of international athletes. No Willy Plumridge. I looked at winter sports. Nothing. I tried the internet without result.
“He’s a fraud. He’s got to be,” I told Sally when I phoned her that night. “I’ve checked every source.”
She said, “I thought you were going to look him up.”
“I did, in the library.”
“You great dummy. I meant look him up in person. He’s always in the Nag’s Head lunchtimes.”
“That figures,” I said with sarcasm. “The international athlete, knocking them back in the Nag’s Head every lunch-time.”
But I still turned up at the bar next day. Sally was right. Willy Plumridge was perched on a bar stool. I suppose it made
him feel taller.
“Hi, Willy,” I said with as much good humour as I could raise. “We met at Sally’s party.”
“Sure,” he said, “and I bummed a fag off you. Have one of mine.”
“What are you drinking, then?”
The stool next to him was vacant. I stood him a vodka and tonic.
“Do you work locally?” I asked.
“Work?” he said with a wide grin. “I chucked that in a long while ago.”
He was under forty. Of course, professional sportsmen make their money early in life, but they usually go into coaching later, or management. He’d made a packet if he could spend the rest of his life on a bar stool.
I had an inspiration. I pictured him slimmed down and dressed in silks and a jockey cap. “Let me guess,” I said. “You were at the top of your profession. Private jet to get you around the country. Cheltenham, Newbury, Aintree.”
He laughed.
“Am I right?” I said. “Champion of the jumps?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he said. “You couldn’t be more wrong. I wouldn’t go near a horse.”
Another theory went down the pan.
“Wouldn’t put money on one either,” he said. “I invest in certainties. That’s how I got to retire.”
“I wish I knew your secret,” I said, meaning so much more than he knew.
“It’s simple,” he said. “I got it from my Dad. Did I tell you he was in banking? He knew the way it works. He told me how to make my fortune, and I did. From time to time I top it up, and that’s enough to keep me comfortable.”
Believe it or not, I’d become so obsessed with his jumping that I wasn’t interested in how he’d made his fortune through banking. Maybe that was why he persisted with me. I was a challenge.
“If you were to ask me how I did it, I couldn’t tell you straight off,” he said. “It wasn’t dodgy. It was perfectly legit, well, almost. I’m an honest man, Michael. Thanks for the drink, but I have to be going. Next time it’s on me.”
I ran into Sally a couple of days later. She asked if I was any the wiser. I told her I was losing patience with Willy Plumridge. I didn’t believe he’d jumped for England. Ever.
Murder on the Short List Page 11
