by Mike Ripley
Monday and Tuesday I had some regular work lined up, moving fire-damaged gin from a couple of pubs in Canning Town all the way across town to a warehouse in Hounslow.
Dod had got me the job and we were using his van, so everything was okay by me. If it had been anyone else, then, yes, even I would have said, ‘How can you have fire-damaged gin?’ But as it was Dod, I took my 50 quid and free ploughman’s lunches (not that Canning Town’s seen a ploughman since Shakespeare packed ‘em in over at the Globe in Southwark) and we humped boxes and sat in traffic jams and set the world to rights. Well, if not the world, we at least sorted out Tottenham’s back four.
Tuesday evening and there was rumour of a gig in a pub in Islington, with the added plus that – so the rumour went – good old loony left Islington Council were subsidising it. In other words, any immigrant, disabled, single-parent, unemployed, lesbian trombonist could get a grant for turning up. No, that’s not fair. I’m sure the Council do a lot of good work, and it shouldn’t fall to me to propagate the views of the monopolistic, right-wing press. There. Everybody happy now?
The pub seemed to be the only building left standing (a good motto for the local council?) on that side of Copenhagen Street. It had been bought by a Northern brewery who couldn’t believe that they could get over a pound a pint for their best bitter despite what they’d heard about Londoners. Still, they were making an effort, putting on cheap food and jazz bands, and so far the locals from the high rise flats across the road seemed to be accepting them. Well, at least the pub still had all its windows.
The band was a right dog’s breakfast, with no bass player, an over-enthusiastic banjoist and a jealous pianist who thought he was being diddled out of his fair share of solos. Needless to say, the band was run on cooperative lines, with no-one in particular leading. By the time I got a look-in, two other trumpeters had pitched for a spot on the makeshift stage, so four of us did a loud, but enthusiastic version of ‘Tiger Rag’, which pleased the punters. Thank God they weren’t jazz fans.
I’d seen Bunny arrive, take one look around the pub and decide against it. He stuffed his sax case under a table and ordered a pint at the bar, moving ever so casually towards two women sitting by themselves on high stools. They’d gone to the loo together by the time I joined Bunny. Maybe he was losing his touch.
‘Not your scene?’ I asked.
‘I’m a Keep Music Live man; you know that. This is dead zone material.’
‘I have to agree. Still, the ale’s not bad, and I thought there might be a chance of a blow.’
‘So did I,’ said Bunny, looking towards the Ladies and wondering if there could be another exit he couldn’t see. ‘What’s going down at the Mimosa?’
‘Not a lot, as far as I know. Why?’
‘Old Stubbly seems determined to put himself out of business. No music and the bar’s only open for the minimum time he can get away with. Even the afternoon dipsomaniacs are deserting him now Kenny’s gone.’
Behind me, the band, now augmented by two extra trombonists, broke into ‘Beale Street Blues’, and a tall, anorexic blonde who thought she knew the words volunteered to sing. It could have been that, I suppose, that made the hairs on the back of my neck feel like they were giving off static.
‘Ken the barman? But I saw him Sunday evening.’
Bunny buried his face in his beer and I only just caught what he said over the noise from the band.
‘Well, it must have been after that he had his accident.’
‘Accident?’ Why did I have to ask?
‘Walking into his car door like that; really strange. Broke his nose, split his lip and blacked his eye. Couldn’t go to work looking like that, could he?’
‘Ken hasn’t got a car.’
‘I know. That’s the really strange thing about it. But I wouldn’t go there asking after him if I were you.’
I definitely wasn’t going to ask this one. The anorexic blonde was on her fifth chorus. I never knew there were so many E-flats in it.
‘Rod Stewart could have a voice like that if he smoked more,’ I said, for the sake of something to say.
Bunny had finished his beer and the two ladies were still in the Ladies, or had escaped without him seeing how. Either way, he was getting itchy feet.
‘Okay, Bunny, do tell me why I shouldn’t ask after Ken.’
‘Because somebody was asking Kenny about you when he had his accident.’
‘Asking what about me?’
‘Who you is, where you’re at.’
‘Cut the street crap. Who and why?’
‘Well, the why’s not known. Or at least Kenny had no idea why anyone should think he was an oppo of yours, and he could tell them virtually zilch. He doesn’t know your gaff or anything, does he?’
‘So who was asking?’
‘Stubbly’s new doorman, it seems. A big guy called Nevil. Wears suits a lot, doesn’t use words when he talks.’
Bunny grinned impishly. I hate him sometimes.
‘So this Nevil asks Ken about me and then Ken runs into a car door, eh? Is that it?’
‘More or less; but I’ve a feeling Nevil was holding the car door at the time.’
I refused to let this worry me. And, anyway, I only cruised up and down outside the house twice just to make sure there was no-one lying in wait.
Wednesday was an Even Rudergrams day for me, and that was usually good for a laugh.
Even Rudergrams was a new small company set up with the help of various Government enterprise grants (God Bless Our Lady of Downing Street), which specialised in an over-the-top kissogram service. All in the worst possible taste. Rudergrams went where even regular kissogram companies failed to boldly go. They had hit on the idea of advertising (discreetly) in things like the Financial Times and the Economist. This brought them a very high class of customer who didn’t mind paying over the odds for something that little bit naughtier.
I was, of course, simply their innocent driver; well, most Wednesdays anyway. I had been trying to negotiate the Friday lunch-time run, which was the most lucrative, office-party wise, as ER was always on the lookout for reliable drivers who could not only deliver their people but hang around and pick them up. Inevitably they would be in an arrestable state of undress.
Today I had three of them in the back of Armstrong, the ideal vehicle for such a job, as a cab was unlikely to get moved along or clamped at a delicate, or indelicate, moment.
Clara and Rebecca had previously worked as a team, but today they were on different jobs. Clara was the more traditional Nubile Nun, who would doubtless strip down to her wimple for the amusement of some City whizzkid. Rebecca, more unusually, was an LBT – a Loud Blowsy Tart, normally an evening job guaranteed to embarrass you in front of your wife and friends at a night out at the theatre or similar.
But the star of the show, or at least the back seat of Armstrong, was Simon the Stripping Sexton. In his time, he had been billed as the Sex Ton (geddit?), Simon Smith and His Amazing Dancing Bare and, until his credentials were exposed, even the Randy Rabbi. He had also been a talented professional wrestler (i.e. a good actor) in his youth, and still gave the impression that he could look after himself if pushed around. Or pulled around, or fondled, or goosed.
Rebecca’s Loud Blowsy Tart was the longest ‘act,’ so we dropped her off first at a wine bar near St Paul’s. Before she got out, she took a small bottle of Gordon’s gin from her huge, red-plastic handbag and sprinkled most of it over her neckline and cleavage. Then she carefully nicked another hole in her red fishnet stockings and, once on the pavement, readjusted the seams so they were nicely crooked. Then she tottered off on her four-inch heels. Ah, I love a professional.
I had to drop Simon at Bill Bentley’s, the wine and fish bar near the Stock Exchange, and then Clara at a pub in St Mary Axe. The order of pick-up was Simon, Clara and lastly Rebecca. Or t
o put it another way: a nude (bar the dog-collar) clergyman, a semi-undressed nun and a loud, blowsy tart fighting a losing battle to stay inside a Marks & Spencer blouse at least two sizes too small. And as part of the deal, I had some petty cash with which to buy them all sandwiches and coffee, so they could get changed or dressed while they ate and I took them to the next job, if they had one, or wherever they wanted to go.
I’d got an assortment of sarnies and some cans of Diet Coke and bottles of Perrier at a café behind Liverpool Street and was allowing plenty of time for the traffic to get back into the City. It was just as well. I was idling Armstrong outside the National Westminster Tower – you know, the building that King Kong would have climbed if he’d been British – when the cops pulled me in. Five minutes later, I would have had to explain a naked vicar as well.
It was an ordinary bobby on foot patrol, who strolled out in front of Armstrong and put a hand on the roof after indicating to me to lower my window.
‘Are you the owner of this vehicle, sir?’
I wish I had a pound for every time I’d been asked that.
‘Yes, he’s mine. AJW 440Y.’ Before you ask.
‘Very good, sir. Now would you mind calling round at Love Lane police station. You do know the way, do you?’
‘I could always ask a policeman,’ I said before I could stop myself.
‘And I’d always ask a cabbie,’ he said, climbing into the back seat.
Behind us, an impatient motorist tooted a horn. The copper glared out of the back window at him.
‘I was thinking along the lines of getting there today, sir, if you don’t mind.’ You can always tell you’re getting old: the policemen get more sarcastic. ‘You weren’t by any chance waiting for a fare, were you, sir?’
‘A fare? This is a private vehicle, officer, unless you’re commandeering it.’
‘Nothing like that, sir. It’s you that’s wanted down at the station, and it was kind of you to give me a lift. Anyway, we couldn’t leave this – vehicle – here, could we? That’d be a traffic violation.’
Love Lane (what a place for a cop shop!) wasn’t actually the nearest nick to where we were, but I didn’t think about that. I just concentrated on driving very, very carefully.
‘My name is Malpass. I can’t believe yours is Fitzroy Maclean Angel.’
‘I’m afraid it is.’ God knows what had possessed me to put my proper name on my real driving licence, but once it goes into the DVLC computer, it stays.
‘What do normal people call you?’
‘Mr Angel –’ no, don’t be cheeky, ‘– or You There or Buggerlugs – but mostly Roy.’
‘Well then, Roy, let’s try and keep this friendly.’
He was a good six inches taller than me, which isn’t saying that much, but a lot heavier, twice as wide and maybe ten years older. He was also, so he said, a detective-inspector in the CID. If he wasn’t, he was a bloody good con man and had rented out an office in Love Lane nick under false pretences.
It was a standard interview room, and the only non-regulation items to break the monotony of tube-legged table and chairs were the cigarettes, lighter and an ashtray advertising Tuborg lager, which Malpass had placed in front of himself. Even policemen pinched ashtrays, it seemed.
‘Is that your cab outside, laddie?’ He lit up a cigarette and moved his mouth around as he inhaled, as if chewing the flavour of the smoke. There was a hint of Scottish accent in the voice. And maybe just a hint of Scotch on the breath? Be careful, old son.
‘Yes. What’s the problem?’
‘But it’s not a cab, is it?’
‘It’s a de-licensed cab, run as a private vehicle. Is there any problem here, Inspector? I mean, nobody’s said anything to me.’
‘No, it’s not the cab, Mr Fitzroy, so much as where it’s been.’
I almost rose to the bait. It’s an old lawyer’s trick to get people rattled by getting their name wrong, if ever so slightly. No, keep cool, baby. It couldn’t be about the fire-damaged gin. We’d used Dod’s van for that, not Armstrong.
‘I don’t understand, I’m afraid.’
‘And I don’t understand how the registration papers, which we so carefully prised out of the Department of Transport’s computer in Swansea or some other Godforsaken place, and your driving licence, both have an address in Southwark. I don’t understand, because the address does not exist any more.’ He inhaled smoke deeply and looked me in the eyes. ‘The house in question appears to have blown up over a year ago.’
‘Faulty gas main,’ I said, but it sounded weak.
‘So I’m told, but it still means you’ve got iffy papers on this cab of yours, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’ He blew smoke at me. Tough guy. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought that was any call for the serious crimes squad. Do you want me to say that it’s a fair cop or something? I forgot. I’ll get it done. Okay?’
He leaned way back so that only two legs of his chair touched the floor. It was a trick I’d learned never to do without a crash helmet.
‘If you’d done your legal duty, my lad, we wouldn’t have had to go through the bother of pulling you off the street,’ said Malpass with a sickly smile. ‘We could have come round and had a chat instead of having every foot patrol and panda car in the bloody Met wandering around checking the numbers on every pigging black cab in town. In a way, you were lucky young Mason spotted you. He’s keen, that lad. Just what were you doing in Threadneedle Street anyway? Meeting your broker?’
‘Look, Inspector, just what’s going on? I was waiting for a friend, and I would like to get out of here some time this week.’
Malpass thudded the chair forward and leaned over the table. He put his arms out in front, and the hands formed fists.
‘All right, Mr Angel. What were you doing outside Sedgeley House on Sunday night?’
I had to admit to myself that that threw me for the minute. Of all the things I’d got up to in my time, I never thought I’d be stitched for trying to return someone’s stolen property.
‘Called to see a friend,’ I said with a dry mouth.
‘Got a lot of friends, haven’t we? Any friend in particular?’
He beamed innocently, and as his eyebrows went up, I noticed his hairline. He would be bald before he was 50; but I didn’t think now was the time to tell him.
‘A girl. A girl I met at a party on Saturday night.’
Always tell the truth; not necessarily all of it, though, nor all at once. (Rule of Life No 5.)
‘Would that be Josephine Scamp? Mrs Josephine Scamp?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘See her, take her out for a drink.’
‘Did you?’
‘She wasn’t in.’
‘Been there before?’
Careful. He’s probably talked to the old night porter.
‘Yeah, once before – last year some time.’
‘Know her well?’ Now what does that mean?
‘Met her two or three times. Socially.’
‘Know her husband?’
Here it comes. Don’t tell me her old man’s a copper and this is one of his mates warning me off.
‘No.’
‘Know who he is?’
‘No idea. You going to tell me?’
‘Did you get the feeling at any time that Mrs Scamp was frightened of her husband?’
Oh my God, he’s done her in.
‘No. It was not something we talked about. Not that we talked much about her … private life.’
‘So you wouldn’t know what she’s been doing this week.’ This was not a question.
‘I haven’t seen her since Saturday, and then only briefly.’
‘And exactly where and when was that?’
He produced a notebook and took down the addres
s of the party in Fulham (as best as I could remember it) and the time, which I guessed at around 11.15 pm.
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘11.16 pm?’
He ignored that and put the notebook away.
‘And how long was she there?’ he continued, unperturbed.
‘Ten minutes, no more.’
‘And you’ve not seen her since?’
‘No.’
‘Phoned her?’
‘No.’
‘Romantic sod, aren’t you. If she gets in touch with you, tell her to ring this number.’
He took a square of white card from his pocket and flicked it across the table. There was a London phone number printed on it, nothing else.
‘The officer at the desk will see you on your way out.’ I must have looked puzzled. ‘To help you fill out the forms for your cab, so we have your current address. Problems?’ He stood up.
‘You wouldn’t consider giving me a clue as to what this is all about?’
He thought for a moment.
‘No.’
He picked up his cigarettes and lighter and left the room. I was dismissed.
I borrowed a ballpoint from the uniform at the front desk and did the honest thing with my address, consigning myself to the bowels of the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Centre’s billion-shilling brain down in Wild West Wales.
I had more or less finished when the copper who had pulled me appeared from the back office and lifted the flap in the desk to get by me. I nodded recognition.
‘No chance of a lift again, eh?’ he said jovially.
‘No chance. I’ll be getting a reputation as a Black Maria if I’m not careful.’
He shrugged and adjusted the chinstrap of his helmet.
‘I’m back on, Trevor,’ he said to the policeman at the desk.
‘Okay, Geoff. Go down to Bank tube station, will you, and have a butcher’s.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Probably nothing. Probably some little pillock stockbroker on the pop. You know, one of the Fizz Kids liquored up and pissing around.’
‘Disturbance?’ asked Geoff, opening the station door and speaking over the back of my head.
