by John Lawton
Jack rose from his chair. Both hands momentarily locked into his hair, as though he would yank it out in a second. Only now could Troy see how dishevelled he was. The suit looked as though he’d slept in it, but Troy could only guess when Jack had last slept. He doubted he’d slept in three nights. ‘I do not believe this!’
Rhys cut in. It seemed like an age since he’d last spoken. ‘Chief Inspector, I think a case in which guilt or innocence hinges on the ability of eyewitnesses to identify and distinguish between identical twins might be without precedent. You got lucky in having two eyewitnesses, unlucky in that they did not agree. Unlucky they saw only one man at the scene of the crime. If they’d seen both, things might well be different. Or if they’d identified the same brother you might have the ghost of a chance. With them identifying different brothers—’
‘But they’re idiots. Complete idiots.’
‘No, Mr Wildeve, they’re our witnesses. If they’re idiots, they’re our idiots.’
‘I simply do not believe this. I do not fucking believe this. You’re going to let them walk because two idiots cannot agree, two complete fucking idiots? I do not fucking believe this!’
Onions got up and said tersely, ‘My office. Now.’
And Troy was grateful that the old man had not exploded. Jack was pushing him to the limit. He’d done it many times himself. It would be good to know when Onions would explode, but impossible to guess. He was cutting Jack some slack. Troy wondered if Jack was cool enough to recognise this and back down now.
Rhys had got up and was pretending to find the view from Troy’s office window interesting. Mary McDiarmuid sat with her pencil between her teeth. Godbehere was still looking at Troy.
Jack turned to Troy, the waving hands flopping at his side as though drained of all energy. He, too, was looking straight at Troy.
‘Shit,’ was all he said. And ‘Shit,’ again.
He turned his back on them and followed Onions.
Mary McDiarmuid flashed a fake smile at Troy over the pencil. The next to get up was Godbehere.
‘Spit it out,’ said Troy.
‘I was just wondering, Mr Troy.’
‘Yes?’
‘What have you got me into?’
Troy turned to Mary McDiarmuid. ‘Where are you holding them? The cells?’
‘Interview room four.’
‘The one with the mirror?’
She nodded.
‘Good. I’d like to take a look at them before we turn them loose.’
§ 66
The Ryans sat opposite one another, either end of a fag-burnt wooden table into which dozens of bored suspects had scratched their initials with anything from blunt pencils to cufflinks over the years. They were past that. They didn’t even look bored: they grinned and giggled like schoolboys, as they played the most elementary of non-sequitur word games.
‘Parsnip.’
‘Toad.’
‘Twat.’
This brought on near hysterics.
‘Yugoslavia.’
‘Bournville.’
Another fit of giggles rendered them both speechless. Troy had seen his sisters do this. It was not the unlikeliness or absurdity of sequence and juxtaposition that mattered, it was how close the random words came to what the other was actually thinking. If one were to believe Hollywood, and The Corsican Brothers, twins were not just telepathic: they felt each other’s feelings as well as thinking each other’s thoughts. Troy thought this was bollocks, but his sisters would never quite abandon the notion that a common identity meant common thought. If they each felt what the other felt, then that was more than likely because they did everything together. So, it seemed, did the Ryans. And the constant company of the second self did for them what it had done for Troy’s sisters. It had made them into overreachers. Arrogant egotists who thought rules were for fools. Men born to transgress.
‘Catford.’
‘Winklepickers.’
‘Dogshit.’
‘Coppers.’
Then both heads turned as though choreographed by Busby Berkeley, both bodies rose from their chairs, four legs propelled them to the mirror. They pressed the palms of their hands and their noses to the glass like the postcard kid outside the sweetshop, flattening flesh, like dead meat hit with a hammer.
‘Coppers,’ they said, breathing mist on to the glass. ‘Dogshit, coppers, dogshit.’
And they laughed so hard they could hardly stand. Troy could not but admire the synchronicity.
He became aware that Jack was standing next to them. He had no telepathy with Jack.
‘First time you’ve seen them since the war?’ Jack said softly.
‘No – I got a look at them at the Empress.’
‘Of course. What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking in cliché– a cliché of our class, I’m afraid, but a true one none the less. You can take the man out of Shadwell, but not Shadwell out of the man.’
‘They still live in Shadwell.’
‘They may live there, but they’re taking over the West End. They have clean fingernails, decent haircuts, Savile Row suits, handmade shoes and, for all I know, you, me and they all patronise the same shirtmaker. They’ve got it, they’re flaunting it, and it disguises nothing of what they really are. They still drink tea from the saucer.’
‘Are we snobs now, Freddie?’
‘If you recall, Jack, most of the Yard refers to us as the “Tearaway Toffs”. Fine. Be a toff for two minutes. Look beneath the bespoke suit. It’s the veneer on their animal hide. I’m amazed that there are people who cannot see it. I’m amazed that there are people who see charm and egalitarianism in this. Perhaps that’s what we’re doing, preaching about egalitarianism and the new meritocracy, and failing to see that the two are contradictory. Meanwhile this rough beast slouches towards Mayfair. The Empress will just be the beginning if we don’t stop them.’
‘Quite,’ said Jack, much as Troy might have done himself, then, ‘Don’t you think it’s time we stopped fighting one another.’
‘Way past,’ Troy replied.
‘Then perhaps the first thing is that you get yourself off the sick list and back to work. Having you on the outside pissing in has been a pain in the arse. You’ve just cured a massive headache for Stan. Surely now is the right time to ask the old man.’
‘He won’t do it. Last time he told me to bugger off. He’ll be more polite about it now, all the same, the basic message won’t change. But I’m working on it.’
‘How?’
‘Stan’s going to get shit for this. There’ll be pressure on him. God knows who these two have bought. Possibly even political pressure. Thinking like a toff again, that’s the one thing class and upbringing have not equipped Stan to handle. He needs me. He just doesn’t know it yet.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, there’ll be pressure, all right. I can guarantee it.’
‘And this pair of laughing jackasses?’
Jack put a finger on the glass, where one or other of them had left a trail of spittle. The Ryans were cavorting about the room, yelling, ‘Coppers’ and ‘Dogshit’ at one another as though they’d just discovered a Zen mantra or a football chant. It was music hall at its worst. They slipped their expensive jackets back off their shoulders, tucked up their bespoke trousers legs and duckwalked like Max Wall. Showmen with a captive audience.
‘I mean to say,’ Jack went on, ‘they’re going to have a free hand until we can catch them at something else. They’ll be kicking sand in our faces just like this until we do. Stan’s just told me to ease off them. No surveillance until further notice. I think you’re right. He’s getting pressure. Their brief ’s already screaming about victimisation.’
‘Did Stan say anything about Mazzer?’
‘No.’
‘Then we’ll follow Mazzer. That is, if you now agree we don’t have much choice?’
‘I can’t see what Mazzer can have had to do with the murder of Glenda
Felucci but, yes, I concede the point. Mazzer is all we’ve got now. I just wish it were more.’
‘Set Eddie on to him. He looks less like a copper than anyone else on the force.’
‘Eddie’s working on the review.’
‘What review?’
‘Stan’s manpower review. Eddie’s got the job of assessing how many blokes we can strip from the divisions and draft into Notting Hill if it starts to boil over like it did last year. The last thing Stan wants is more race riots.’
‘How long?’
‘It’s due in in about ten days. We could always urge Eddie to bash it out in five.’
‘Fine. That gives me time to do what I have to do. There are a couple of people I need to talk to.’
§ 67
Troy’s Bentley pulled up in a leafy avenue in Hampstead Garden Suburb. Once he had told Mary McDiarmuid to wait and the sound of the engine had rattled down to nothing he stood and listened. This wasn’t London, this was someplace else. The sound of a blackbird, a child in the distance laughing, the gentle mathematics of a Bach well-tempered prelude drifting through an open window. This wasn’t London.
He checked the address he’d copied down from her statement. Alice Marx had bought herself a corner house on Palmerston Grove – the unquaintly named Rutherford Court. Don’t mix science and politics, as Troy’s father had once told him. An L-shaped house, with the front door set squarely in the long stroke of the L, a new-looking fence separating the short stroke for privacy – privacy in a street where your neighbours were not cheek-by-jowl, where lace curtains did not twitch, and housewives did not stand in the doorways giving out the gossip. This wasn’t London. This wasn’t Hampstead, this wasn’t a garden and it wasn’t a suburb. This was what Ally Marx had chosen to escape London. Troy had often wondered why Kolankiewicz had chosen to live here. He’d never explained, but it had something to do with the man’s sense of security. His end to running. The same might apply to Ally Marx.
Troy yanked on the bell-pull.
‘My God. My God. Where did you spring from? It must be – what? Then years?’
Alice Marx was probably about the same age as Troy. She hadn’t worn well. A good dye job dealt with the grey hair, but nothing would erase the sharp creases round her mouth where she’d spent a lifetime doing just what she was doing now, pulling on a cigarette, pursing her lips and letting the smoke roll down her nose. She was a good shape, Mrs Marx, a slender figure in silk blouse and cotton slacks, but her face could only be described as the ruin of a former beauty. She didn’t seem to give a damn.
‘More like fifteen, Ally.’
‘Sergeant Troy, Sergeant Troy, George Bonham’s little boy.’
Troy could hear the rhyme, a taunting schoolboy metre. He was pretty certain she couldn’t.
‘It’s Chief Superintendent now, Ally.’
‘I always knew you’d make good. Alf always said you’d run the soddin’ Yard one day.’
‘You going to invite me in?’
‘Of course. I don’t need to ask why you’ve come, do I?’
She turned on her heel. Left him to close the door. He followed her into a big sitting room. A model of neatness, not a cushion out of place, the magazines fanned out across a heavy glass coffee-table, a paperback copy of Peyton Place splayed on the arm of a plush, apricot-coloured armchair, and an ashtray on stilts with a whiz button to make unsightly fag ash vanish in a flash.
Alice turned to face him. ‘You wanna talk, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then take off your jacket and roll up your shirt.’
‘Eh?’
‘You wanna talk to me, you do as I say. I’m not talking to you ’cept off the record. So I wanna know up front that you’re not making any records. Roll up yer shirt.’
‘Alice. I don’t think we have that kind of technology.’
‘Shirt or walk, Troy. Your choice.’
Troy removed his jacket, feeling as though he were in front of the school matron, and hocked his shirt up above his nipples.
‘Oy-vey!’ she said, softly parodic. ‘Troy, you’ve taken a battering in your time.’
Troy said nothing. Turned his back to her so that she could see that he did not have whatever device she thought he might.
‘OK. So you’re clean. Come in the kitchen and I’ll make us some coffee.’
She set the kettle to boil. Scooped an inch of ground coffee into the bottom of a cafetie`re and chattered about her decorators and her builders and the trouble she’d had getting the house as she wanted it. ‘It’s not being able to work with your own. That’s what it is. I got a lovely bathroom now. The doin’s . . . but half the tradesmen in North London are idiots. And can you get a Jewish plumber? Can you my fanny. There’s no such soddin’ thing as a Jewish plumber.’
Troy had a momentary vision of marble tops and gold taps. Perhaps a lavatory seat in a seahorse pattern. A pale green bath. The innate snobbery of his upbringing sitting calmly with the radicalism of his family’s politics, thinking nothing of his inward sneer at the lack of taste so manifested.
At last she stuck a cup and saucer in front of him on what he knew was termed a ‘breakfast bar’. She pulled up a stool. He perched opposite her, thinking this was the most uncomfortable posture to eat any meal and that if it was designed for breakfast he’d far rather take it standing up as his father had done, pacing round his study, bowl of salty porridge in hand, belting out ideas to the boy Troy faster than Troy could catch them.
‘Ginger nut?’ she said.
‘Love one,’ said Troy.
She rolled the packet towards him. As he bit into one she said, ‘Dunk if you want. Alf always did. I could never get him to stop. Couldn’t get him to drink the real stuff either, but you’re used to it, aren’t you? Can’t see you drinking Maxwell House.’
It was the first time Alf ’s name had come up. He wondered where the mention of her husband would lead her, but all she said was ‘When you’re ready.’
There could only be one question. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’
A slow stirring of her coffee, her eyes not meeting his. Then the upward tilt of the head, eyes locking on to his like radar.
‘Millie,’ she said simply.
‘Millie?’
‘I’ve known Millie Champion all my life. She was Millie Levine when we was kids. A couple of years younger’n me. A skinny scrap of a girl with legs like beanpoles, and two trails off snot hangin’ off her nose like icicles. We nicknamed her Raggety. I imagine there are still blokes in Bethnal Green who think her name’s Raggety. Millie’s the little sister I never had. Bernie? A pain in the arse. I never thought she should marry a putz like Bernie. But what could I say? I’d married Alf. I hadn’t a stiletto heel to stand on. But, like I said, we grew up together. We stuck together. She cried on my shoulder when Bernie disappeared.’
Troy wondered if there might be mention of Alice crying on Millie’s shoulder when Alf got banged up for fifteen years. There wasn’t. She paused to sip coffee and picked up her thread with no mention of Alf.
‘So. When those Irish sacks of shit went to her and said she’d never see Bernie alive again if I didn’t come up with an alibi for them she didn’t have to plead with me. I said yes straight away. I don’t see what else I coulda done.’
‘Bernie’s dead. You know that, don’t you?’
‘You found the body?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And maybe you never will. But you’re right. Of course Bernie’s dead. But what kind of a friend would I be if I kept telling her that? I just said I’d do it. I alibied the bastards.’
‘When?’
‘Two days before they went out to Bruno Felucci’s. They knew what the odds were. Chances were they’d end up shooting somebody. I just never thought it would be Glenda. In fact, I’d no idea what I was covering them for until I read it in the papers.’
‘A blanket alibi for that night?’
‘If you like.’
&
nbsp; ‘Did they get in touch with you personally?’
‘Worse than that. I met with them up West in a hotel. Just to get our stories straight and to come up with enough to withstand cross-examination if it ever came to that.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as we all stripped off. I had to be able to point to a mole or a scar or whatever it was. I told ’em up front. Any funny business and I’d scratch their eyes out. But there weren’t no funny business. That was what was so odd. It was business. That and nothing more. And do you know what sticks in the mind? No offence, you being a goy and all, but the ugliest sight in the world has got to be an uncircumcised prick. And I had to get a gander at two of ’em. Never seen one before. And there I was lookin’ at a matchin’ set. Like two choppers in babies’ bonnets. And I went round their place, so I could clock the colour of the wallpaper and which side the light was on and all that nonsense. Then it was all down to time and chance. If they pulled off whatever it was I’d not hear from them. I was to read the papers, and if I saw anything I could expect a phone call and I was to get hold of my brief. We was thorough. We must a’been. Or you lot wouldn’t have let ’em walk, would you?’
‘We’ll get them.’
‘You’d better.’
‘You wouldn’t consider withdrawing your evidence?’
‘Fuck off, Troy. I’ve told you. I’ve Millie to think of. While she’s got the hope . . . besides, it was more than just me, wasn’t it?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘A feeling. Well . . . more than a feeling. I got told to go to the Yard and make a statement. So I got me brief and I did it. But if I was all they had to get their lyin’ arses off the hook you’d have had me back at the Yard half a dozen times with my brief interrupting you every two seconds, now, wouldn’t you? No, Troy. I reckon you had a piss-poor case. You’ve come to me cos you want confirmation of what you already know. The Ryans blew away Glenda Felucci – you just can’t prove it.’
‘I will. Sooner or later.’
‘Don’t waste your time, Troy. Do London a favour. Take that scum off the streets. Blow them away, if you have to.’
