by Hugh Fraser
‘Governor wants to see you,’ says Bert Davis.
I curse myself for answering the phone without thinking. I need time to decide what I’m going to do and at least I need to find out if Ray knows who was holding the shotgun last night. If it was Brindle, it means he’s got a fair mob behind him already. I decide I’d better see George.
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘Walmer Castle, half an hour.’
I put the phone down, pick it up again and dial Ray’s number. Just as I’m about to give up, he answers.
‘Pick anyone up last night?’ I ask.
I hear him give a bit of a chuckle.
‘Nice one with the boomstick,’ he says.
‘Thought I’d fire the starting pistol.’
‘You didn’t hang about,’ he says.
‘I had to get my friend away.’
‘We don’t want the crumpet damaged, do we?’
I’m looking forward to the day I hurt this smug twat.
‘How did it go?’ I ask.
‘We smashed the fuck out of them.’
‘Did you get the masks off?’
‘The Old Bill did.’
‘Who had the shooter?’
‘Guess.’
‘Brindle?’
‘Got it.’
‘Did the Bill make any collars?’
‘They just swept up the card money, called an ambulance and fucked off.’
‘You reckon Brindle’s got them squared?’
‘Likely.’
I hear a woman’s voice calling him and the line goes dead.
I feel like a long soak in the bath, but if I’m going to see George there isn’t time. I have a quick wash, go into my bedroom and put on clean underwear and stockings. I look along the rail in the wardrobe and select the brown pinstriped dress that I got from Biba in Abingdon Road when it opened last week. I put on make-up, slip into a pair of court shoes and pick up my handbag. As I’m approaching the lift, I remember Marlene’s ratty little face snarling at me through the gate and I go back and get my Smith & Wesson.
I park the car in Artesian Road and walk round the corner to the Walmer Castle. It’s only just past opening time and Bert is standing alone at the bar. The landlord is by the till, writing something in a notebook. George is sitting in the far corner talking to a couple of men in dark suits who I don’t recognise. I join Bert at the bar.
‘Usual?’ he says.
‘Go on then.’
‘Whisky for the lady, Ken,’ says Bert. The landlord turns and looks at me.
‘Coming up,’ he says. He pours a whisky and puts it on the bar. ‘That’s on the house if you promise to come back tonight.’
‘Busy I’m afraid,’ I say.
‘How about a barrel?’
‘Make it a distillery and I’ll think about it.’
While he’s thinking up his next line, the men George has been talking to get up and leave. George nods to me and I go and join him. He’s looking like he’s ready to kill half of London.
‘You were at the party last night.’
‘I left early.’
‘I want that blond-headed cunt hurt so he never walks again.’
‘You need to know something.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’s told me to off you and share the proceeds.’
‘And what have you told him?’
‘That I’m thinking about it.’
‘Who’s he got?’
‘A few of Viner’s mob but I don’t know who.’
‘Fucking little cunt.’
‘You want me to do him?’
‘I need to know who’ll be coming up behind him when he’s gone.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Tell him you’re on for it but it’ll take a bit of time. Find out who he’s got and I’ll put the frighteners on.’
‘Why not use Ray?’
‘This one’s yours.’
His answer tells me that he doesn’t trust Ray any more than I do and I’m beginning to think I’ve made the right decision going with George.
‘Did you find Dawn?’ he asks.
If I tell him what Danny’s been doing to a young girl he’s likely to lose his legs as well as his teeth. George is a violent man and he’d never stand by while a woman’s being hurt. I decide to keep it simple, for now.
‘Not yet,’ I say.
‘Keep looking.’
‘When do I get my dad’s money?’
‘When you find Dawn and we sort out Brindle.’
George gets up and walks towards the door of the pub, stopping to say something to Bert on the way. As he reaches the door, a group of young blokes in leather jackets come in, laughing about something. When they see George, they go quiet and stand back to let him pass.
Bert comes over to the table and sits with his back to the room.
‘You want to be careful on this one Reen.’
‘I know.’
‘There’s a lot of loose change about since Viner’s gone.’
‘What do you reckon to Ray?’
‘He’d sell his mother.’
‘How’s Danny?’
‘Out of the game for a while yet. You want another?’
‘I ought to get back,’ I say, feeling the landlord’s eyes on me as I walk to the door.
On the way home I stop at the butchers in Portobello Road. There isn’t time to do a roast for the girls, if they’re coming at one o’clock, so I buy some lamb chops and get an extra one in case Lizzie’s around and wants to join us. Although it’s not market day there’s a couple of fruit and veg stalls open and I have a chat with one of the stallholders, who I’ve known since I was a kid. I notice that his wrist is bandaged and he’s got a cut on his neck. When I ask him what happened, he says he was in the ruck down in Brighton at the weekend between the Mods and Rockers that’s been in the papers. I’ve seen him riding his Norton Dominator, so I know which side he was on. I don’t ask him any more about it as I know the Rockers were outnumbered and got a good kicking from the Mods for once.
An old woman asks for a pound of potatoes and while he’s weighing them out a kerfuffle starts outside the Duke of Wellington over the road. A black man is being hustled out of the door by a couple of blokes in dirty overalls. The black man takes a swing at one of them and they both jump on him, push him down onto the pavement and start pummelling him with fists until he lies still. They roll him into the gutter and go back inside the pub. A couple of people walking past take a quick look at him and move on. I leave my carrier bag on the stall and go across the road. As I reach him he starts to come round, tries to get up and falls back down. I take his arm and help him to his feet.
‘You all right?’ I ask.
He mumbles something that I can’t make out and leans against me. I put my arm round his waist and help him round the corner and away from the pub in case the cavemen come out again. As he recovers and straightens up I notice how tall he is. He leans against a wall, sways a bit and I can see they’ve given him a right shiner. He rubs his other eye and takes a look at me.
‘Good woman,’ he says.
‘You OK?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, me fine.’
He reaches into his pocket, takes out a lump of hash about the size of my fist and a pen knife and starts cutting off a slice.
‘Me make you little present,’ he says.
‘No thanks.’
‘You don’t want?’
I tried it once with Lizzie. It made me feel slow and woozy and I didn’t like it. I shake my head and he shrugs, cuts off a small piece of hash, swallows it and puts the lump back in his pocket. He probably got thrown out of the pub for selling.
‘I’d better go,’ I say.
‘Which way you walk?’ he asks.
‘I’ve got a car. Take care.’
He says something that I don’t catch as I walk off round the corner. I cross the road to the stall, pick up my carrier bag, buy some potatoes and carrots and walk up to Blen
heim Crescent where I’ve left the car. I stop at the bakery on Great Western Road and get one of their apple tarts for pudding, then I drive along Elgin Avenue to Maida Vale.
I let myself into the flat, phone Lizzie to tell her the girls are coming to lunch and ask her if she wants to join us. She says she’d love to and she’ll be over as soon as she’s finished a client. I go into the kitchen, turn on the radio, unpack the shopping and start peeling the potatoes and carrots while Emperor Rosko gives it a bit of lip until Roy Orbison chimes in with ‘Pretty Woman’. When Roy’s done warbling, Rosko blathers on about life onboard ship for a bit and then Cilla rides the airwaves with ‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’. Just as she’s finishing moaning about her old man cheating on her, Lizzie knocks on the door and I go and let her in.
We have a cuddle in the hall and go into the kitchen. She sits at the table while I open a bottle of cider, pour two glasses and put one beside her.
‘How lovely to see Georgie. How long is she here for?’ she asks.
‘She’s on her way to the country with her friend Annabelle and she needs to pick up some clothes.’
‘Oh. Well at least we’ll set eyes on her.’
I put the carrots and potatoes on to simmer, so they’ll be ready when the girls arrive, and melt the fat in the frying pan for the chops. Lizzie washes her hands in the sink.
‘I thought you weren’t doing business at home any more,’ I say.
‘That was only Gerald. He’s no trouble.’
‘That bloke from Chelsea?’
‘His wife’s chucked him out.’
‘Where’s he living?’
‘Staying with his brother in Mayfair.’
‘All right for some.’
‘He’s asked me to start an escort agency with him.’
‘Come again?’
‘The wife’s divorcing him. He reckons she’ll get the house and stick him for maintenance for her and the three kids. He’s the second son, so his brother got all the money when their mum and dad died, and his job’s only part-time, so he needs to find an earner.’
‘Do you want to do it?’
‘I wouldn’t mind. He reckons he knows a good few men who want a bit on the side but need it discreet and he says he can talk to the porter at his club in St James’s. I know enough girls to make it work and there’s a few hotel doormen I can cut in.’
‘You could have an office.’
‘I know. Brass plate, all legit!’
‘Get you.’
‘I just need to see if I can afford to get it going with photos of the girls and a brochure and all that business.’
‘I suppose you need to do all that?’
‘They’ve got to see what they’re getting.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘There’s that many punters getting rolled up the West End these days, I reckon it might be the coming thing.’
She means the habit some toms have of telling a punter they need money to book a room, arranging to meet them and then disappearing with the cash. If the punter finds the girl later, when she’s back on the street, and kicks off at her, a minder will come up to him, tell him he’s plain clothes Vice Squad, say he’s arresting the girl for soliciting and ask the punter to go to the station and make a statement, which gets rid of him in one.
I hear a key turn and the front door opening. We go into the hall and there are the girls looking smart in their school uniforms. Lizzie gives Georgie a big hug and a kiss and I say hello to Annabelle and take her into the kitchen.
‘Would you like a glass of lemonade?’ I ask.
‘That would be nice, thank you,’ she replies, standing rather hesitantly by the door. I put the chops in the frying pan, pour a glass of lemonade and put it on the table. I pull a chair out for her and she sits down. Lizzie and Georgie are still chatting away in the hall.
‘We met on the train on Georgie’s first day, didn’t we?’ I say.
‘Yes, we did.’
‘You took her under your wing and showed her the ropes.’
‘I suppose I did rather.’
‘It was kind of you to do that. It was all a bit strange to her at the time.’
‘We were all new girls once.’
Lizzie and Georgie come in.
‘I may as well get some clothes sorted out while you’re cooking,’ says Georgie.
‘OK.’
‘Come and give me a hand will you Bella?’
‘Of course,’ says Annabelle, following Georgie into her room.
Lizzie sits at the table and picks up her cider. ‘She’s looking so good.’
‘I know. The school really suits her.’
‘I swear she’s grown.’
‘She’s all sporty these days.’
I join Lizzie at the table. ‘Have you noticed how she talks?’
‘I know.’
‘She’s had elocution lessons.’
‘At school?’
‘Yeah. Deportment as well.’
‘What’s deportment when it’s at home?’
‘How to move gracefully,’ I say, gliding over to the stove and picking up the potato pan.
‘Get you, Margot Fonteyn!’ says Lizzie, coming up behind me and holding my hips. As she’s kissing my neck, the door opens and the girls come in. I move quickly to the sink and drain the potatoes. Lizzie picks up the carrots and follows me. What she’s just seen will be no surprise to Georgie, but I’m not sure about Annabelle.
‘Did you find some clothes?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ says Georgie, as she and Annabelle sit at the table.
I add a bit of butter to the potatoes and carrots, take four plates off the draining board and dish up. Lizzie gets some knives and forks from the drawer and we sit down to lunch.
‘This is very nice,’ says Annabelle, after a couple of mouthfuls.
‘Better than school grub,’ says Georgie.
‘Don’t they feed you well?’ asks Lizzie.
‘Some days are better than others,’ Annabelle replies.
‘Thank goodness for the tuck shop,’ says Georgie.
They go on talking about the school and having a giggle about some of the teachers. Annabelle does an impression of one who’s got a Welsh accent and we all laugh. As I see how lovely Georgie’s looking and how much confidence she’s got in herself, it makes me want to get away from London and all the squalid stuff I’m tied up in and this flat with dirty dishes in the sink and villains on the phone and start again. So that she’s got a proper clean house to come home to, with a good big garden, where Annabelle can come and stay with her and ride ponies and such. As soon as I get my hands on Dad’s money I know what I’m going to do.
8
After I’ve cleared the plates and the girls have made short work of the apple tart, they leave us and go on to Annabelle’s, saying they hope we can come to Sports Day which is next Saturday. Lizzie and I have coffee and then she has to get back to Gerald because he wants to talk about the agency. I do the washing up and then take Rebecca into the lounge and lie on the sofa.
The young girl who’s telling the story doesn’t seem to have a name but she’s got a wonderful way with words. Her description of Manderley in her dream really makes me see it and feel the flowers and the foliage as she walks along the path towards the house. I’ve got to where she’s met the mysterious Maxim in the hotel in Monte Carlo. Mrs Van Hopper, who she works for as her companion and who’s a right bitch, has got the flu and Maxim’s taking the girl out in his car and she’s getting all hot and excited. I read on to the part where Maxim proposes to her and asks her to go to Manderley with him and she accepts and she’s overjoyed and feels she’s starting a new life, then Mrs Van Hopper tries to spoil it all by telling her that Maxim’s not in love with her and he just needs someone to look after his great house. I really want to read on and go to Manderley with her but it’s getting late and I’ve got to meet Brindle at the Nite Spot.
I make the bed, take a black Cardin number that’s sheer and t
ight-fitting out of the wardrobe and lay it on the chair at the dressing table, while I put on fresh underwear and fishnet stockings. The blade goes in the suspender belt and I slip on the dress and a pair of black heels. I go into the hall, dial the porters’ desk and ask Dennis to call me a cab, then I tidy up my make-up, brush my hair and put my gun and my knuckle duster into my handbag.
While I’m waiting for Dennis to ring, I pick up my book again and read about them arriving at Manderley and how she feels nervous and badly dressed in a stockinette frock and a stone marten round her neck. I put the book down, go into Georgie’s room and look up stone marten in her encyclopaedia. When I find what it is, I realise she’s wearing an animal fur, probably with a face.
Oxford Street’s quiet and so is the cab driver, once he’s given up trying to find out why I’m going to the Nite Spot and if I’m on the game or not. He turns right into Regent Street and we go round Piccadilly Circus, where there’s plenty of action and people out for the night and Eros on one leg with his little bow and arrow. I get him to drop me at the corner of Charing Cross Road, give him half a crown and walk along until I can see the entrance to the club. I stand in a doorway nearby where I can watch the bouncers outside, in their black suits, talking and smoking fags. After a while a cab draws up and a couple of men get out. One of them staggers a bit and his mate has to hold him up while he pays the driver. The cab moves off and the drunk bloke waves his fist and shouts something at the driver. The bouncers move forward and one of them holds his arm out, like he’s barring them from the club. While the bloke who’s less pissed tries to reason with them, the drunk one lurches past the bouncers and heads for the door of the club. One of the bouncers grabs his collar and the drunk turns and throws a punch at his head. The bouncer gets him in a headlock, throws him onto the pavement and puts his boot on his neck. The second bloke starts roughing it with the other bouncer and I move forward while they’re exchanging punches and slip into the club behind them.
I go down the stairs into the usual fug of cigarette smoke and booze. There’s a mirror ball hanging from the ceiling that’s wafting ripples of coloured light round the room, and a trio on a small stage at the far end of the club playing some cool modern jazz. All the tables except for a couple are occupied by hostesses and punters and there’s a good crowd at the bar. Brindle’s sitting on a bar stool, deep in conversation with an older man with long hair, in a worn tweed jacket and polo neck pullover, who looks a bit frumpy and out of place among the shiny suits around him. I walk past and catch Brindle’s eye. He says something to the older man, who looks over at me. Brindle gets off his stool and makes his way through the crowd.
