Newsdeath

by Ray Connolly

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ She spoke with a refinement which was not exactly usual in this part of Bayswater.

  He looked around for a suitable chair. All were occupied, either by one of three Persian cats which slept in luxury on the wicker furniture or by a mean-looking white poodle, so he turned his attention to a small open-ended settee which he guessed served as a bed during the night. Miss Kathleen watched him carefully.

  ‘I was making some tea. Would you prefer Indian or China?’

  Winston was unused to such choices. ‘Whatever you’d like would be very nice.’ He watched her kneeling over a two-ringed gas stove as she put a kettle down and turned on the supply of gas. The pressure was too low for the flame to light properly, and becoming agitated she began searching through a white beaded handbag on the table for a suitable coin.

  ‘Do they still take shillings?’ asked Winston. He produced a 5p from his pocket.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Miss Kathleen looked earnestly at him as though she meant it. She dropped the coin into the adjacent meter, and sat down on one of the chairs, picking up a large grey cat and putting it across her lap while the kettle boiled.

  ‘I understand you knew Joe Chambers …’ Winston was sitting on the edge of the couch and leaning towards her.

  She feigned slight embarrassment. ‘I’m afraid if you want me to tell you about Joe, there is a fee. It’s been a very difficult year for me … you understand, don’t you?’ She paused and looked him full in the eye. ‘Fifty pounds would be a generous contribution.’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ said Winston.

  Miss Kathleen stood up. The kettle had boiled and she poured the water into a silver tea-pot. ‘Lemon? Sugar?’ she added. Winston nodded to both. ‘I’m afraid the fee is fifty pounds,’ she insisted.

  Winston knew that neither Lloyd nor Mitford would support what he was doing to the extent of fifty pounds, but he had to get to Huckle. He smiled at her and felt in his wallet. He had come prepared. The contact at Notting Hill had warned him that he was dealing with an eccentric money grabber. He took out twenty-five pounds and passed it to her. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you the rest when you tell me something I don’t know already.’

  That seemed to satisfy Miss Kathleen. Stirring his tea, she carefully passed a neat china cup across to him. ‘I like being mother,’ she said delicately.

  Winston opened his briefcase and took out the newspaper photofit picture of the girl Huckle had described to the Scotland Yard artist. ‘Have you ever seen this girl before in your life?’ he asked.

  Miss Kathleen took the picture and studied it, smiling at the way in which the artist had assembled the face. ‘Yes,’ she said at last.

  ‘Can you tell me where and when?’

  She paused for a moment. Winston guessed what she might be thinking.

  ‘Believe me, Miss Kathleen,’ he said in a voice which he hoped was as sincere as it was intended to sound. ‘I have no interest whatsoever in your own activities, or your relationship with Joe Chambers or indeed anybody else. I know about some of the material Joe kept on you, and I want to assure you that, although what you were doing is almost certainly illegal, my only interest is in finding my friend, John Huckleston. Nothing you tell me about any minor technical offences which may have been committed will go beyond me. I’m simply not interested. All I want to know about is this woman.’

  Miss Kathleen smiled: ‘I don’t know her name. But I saw her once about three weeks ago. We’d been working at the studio all day on Joe’s version of Othello … I was playing Desdemona … when we had to break into the scene because this woman arrived with Red Jenny and somebody else I didn’t know. I think, though, the description isn’t quite right here. She didn’t have blonde hair. Certainly not when I saw her, and she wouldn’t be a natural blonde because her skin was too pink for that. I think her hair was more auburn, and shorter than you have it here.’

  Winston was already taking down her comments in a shorthand note.

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened in as much detail as you can remember the day you saw her?’

  Miss Kathleen stretched back on her chair and stroked the cat. ‘Well, there was me as Desdemona, Jim “Hung” Lewis was playing Othello …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jim … oh, he’s just a big simple spade from Brixton.’ Suddenly she realized that she might have sounded offensive. ‘Well, I didn’t mean that. Jim’s just a nice man … from Tobago, I think. He’s very handsome, and sort of … well, big … yes he’s what you’d call very big … you know? Everyone knows him as “Hung” … you’d understand why if you saw him.’

  Winston smiled. ‘Did Hung see the woman and the others?’

  ‘Oh no. I don’t think Hung ever sees anything. And from the position he was in he couldn’t … you understand, don’t you? It was a delicate position. Joe was shooting a very beautiful scene that day between the two of us, where Othello kills Desdemona, and decides that before he kills himself he’ll just have to make love to her once again. You know the scene, don’t you? So anyway I was playing dead and lying with my head off the couch and Hung, well he was, you know, doing his part of the scene. It was a close-up on Hung’s … well on Hung … that we were shooting so I didn’t have to keep my eyes closed and then I saw these people come in through the door. Hung was too busy worrying about his performance to notice, but Joe rushed them out again into the hall. I think he was shocked that anyone should want to disturb the scene … I mean it’s difficult enough to give a realistic performance without there being interruptions going on, you know.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Oh calamity! Joe decided to cut the scene, and told us to stay where we were for a moment while he went outside again. He said something about thinking there was a hair in the gate and that we’d have to try it again later on. Hung was very upset. He thought he’d been giving one of his best performances, he told me. It’s not easy for a man, you know, with all those lights and that heat and everything. Anyway Joe rushed outside and I could hear him telling them that they shouldn’t have come. Then they went quiet. I think they were doing some more talking, but he closed the door, so we couldn’t hear. Hung never mentioned it. He’s sweet, but he doesn’t notice very much.’

  ‘Did you see them again?’

  ‘No. After a while they left. And after a little bit of coaxing from Joe … you know what I mean … Hung was ready to go to work again.’

  ‘You mentioned Red Jenny. Who’s that?’

  ‘Well, we just called her that because she had some pretty funny ideas. She used to be one of Joe’s regular artists … just a bit player really … until she got more and more involved with this man she met.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘I never met him. I think he was a Communist or something like that because she used to tell Joe that her politics wouldn’t allow her to go on being abused by him any longer when he wouldn’t give her a rise for her appearances. And then she suddenly stopped working. I don’t know where she went. She wasn’t really a true artist. She always looked bored.’

  ‘Did you know her full name?’

  ‘No. She was just Jenny to us. Somebody else may know her other name. I never heard it mentioned.’

  ‘Do you have a picture of Red Jenny?’

  ‘Haven’t I earned my full £50 yet?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Winston was in such haste to keep her talking that he pulled out his wallet too hurriedly and dropped a whole wad of notes on the floor. He picked up five fives and put the rest, a further thirty pounds, back into his wallet. Miss Kathleen regarded his disappearing wallet like a child taking note of where the sweets are being hidden.

  ‘I’m not sure that I could lay my hands on one immediately …’

  She smiled at Winston. He shook his head.

  ‘Well, thank you for your contribution, Mr …’ she purposely feigned to have forgotten his name, and folding her twenty-five pounds together she stood
up and tucked it into the front pocket of her pinafore. Winston looked at her; then unhappily took out his wallet once again and passed her the remaining thirty pounds. In fifteen minutes he had got through his whole week’s pay packet. Miss Kathleen didn’t say a word, but crouching down pulled out a small suitcase from under the bed at Winston’s feet. Carefully she put it on the floor in front of him and opened it. ‘I think I may have what you’re looking for …’ she said, and taking an old newspaper off the top of the case revealed a massive photolibrary of pornography. Bending down Winston picked up one of the pictures to examine it. ‘Do you like that one?’ Miss Kathleen was clearly pleased at his show of interest. Winston looked closely at the picture. It depicted Miss Kathleen and a gentleman he guessed to be Jim ‘Hung’ Lewis. ‘You see what I mean about Hung,’ she said confidingly. ‘But apart from that he’s such a sweet boy. You’d never know when he was dressed.’

  Winston dropped the picture back into the suitcase. ‘What about Red Jenny?’

  ‘Now just wait one moment,’ she said, sounding a little cross that he didn’t want to spend more time admiring her artistic abilities. Diving deeply into the assorted pictures of breasts and bottoms and masculine bits and pieces, she came up with a group scene which appeared to be an illustrated guide to the all-sorts of intercourse. ‘She’s the mousy-looking one on the floor at the back,’ said Miss Kathleen, with what could only be described as professional derision in her voice. She, needless to say, was the big blonde one front and centre.

  Winston stared at the picture. Because of the positioning of various other bodies he couldn’t make out exactly how tall the girl might be, but it was a clear picture of a woman with a pinched, mean little face, long dark straight hair and a small mouth. He understood now what Miss Kathleen had been saying about Red Jenny being bored with her work. Her expression was that of someone waiting, without impatience or evident interest, for the world to end.

  ‘Is this the only one you have?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Oh yes. Look. I’ll let you have it back, but in the meantime do you mind if I take it away?’

  Miss Kathleen smiled: ‘You’re a nice young man. I’m glad to have helped. But before you do, would you mind if I were to cut myself out of the photograph? You don’t need that part do you? Without a moment’s pause she produced a pair of scissors and cut around her own outline. When the job was completed she passed the picture back to Winston. ‘If I can be of any further assistance, don’t hesitate to come back. It’s always a pleasure doing business with members of the Press. So much more gentlemanly than those rough police,’ she said.

  Winston wondered whether he ought to warn her that she might be in danger, but on consideration he thought it unlikely. Anyway even if she were, there wasn’t a great deal that she was going to be able to do to avoid it. So he thanked her for the tea, refused an invitation to admire the veranda, and said that he must be getting back to the office. Opening his briefcase he tucked the picture inside a book and said his goodbyes.

  It was almost dark by the time he got into Leinster Square again. He turned back up the road to where he had left his car and began to walk quickly along the pavement. Suddenly he felt a presence close at hand, walking quickly just a few yards behind him. He half-looked around before beginning to run, accelerating quickly into a sprint. But as he turned the corner leading to where he had parked his car he suddenly felt his legs buckle under him as he tripped over an uneven paving stone. With a bruising crash he landed in a heap against the iron railings of the square. Putting his hand up he waited for the inevitable blow from the owners of the two pairs of feet which had suddenly appeared by his head.

  ‘What’s the hurry then, Mr Collins?’

  Winston peered up into the faces of his pursuers. There were three of them, one of whom he recognized as the CID man who had been first on the scene of the Joe Chambers murder. Winston felt his heart murmur with relief. Clutching his briefcase he eased himself to his feet.

  ‘You frightened me for a minute,’ he said, dusting down his trousers. ‘I though you might have been somebody else.’

  ‘Is Kathleen a friend of yours then? They tell me she likes black men.’

  Winston refused to be drawn. To get anywhere in life he’d had to walk away from a thousand more subtle and therefore more hurtful insults than this.

  ‘Do you want me for anything, or are you just wasting your time as well as mine?’ he said after a brief second’s thought.

  ‘We’d like to talk about your friend Kathleen.’

  ‘Okay. So would I,’ said Winston, and without looking at them further he walked across to a police car which had just drawn into the pavement, and climbed into the back seat as though it were a taxi.

  There was no chance of Winston pursuing the enquiry any further, even had he wanted to, which he didn’t. Miss Kathleen had been under constant police surveillance for some days, since the Notting Hill CID began to believe that she might know more than she was prepared to admit to them. An officer stationed in a room across the street, overlooking what she described as her veranda, had seen Winston enter the house, spotted him through the windows of her room, and radioed for instructions. The coincidence was too much for Notting Hill and they were down in force to greet him when he left the building. Again Winston suggested that the Bomb Squad be informed of his presence at Notting Hill Police Station, and this time there was no arguing. While a watch was further kept upon Miss Kathleen’s house, Winston was invited to stay in the interview room until officers from Scotland Yard could see him. He was, he said, happy to do this since he had much to tell them.

  ‘Let’s see her then,’ said Howlett when he arrived.

  He had already been told over the telephone of the existence of the photograph of the girl known as Red Jenny. While outwardly showing slight signs of annoyance at Winston’s interference in police matters he was gratified that at last someone had come up with something.

  Winston took out the photograph of the group sex scene and dropped it on to Howlett’s desk. ‘The lady wanted to exclude herself from the picture,’ said Winston, pointing to where Miss Kathleen had cut away her outline. ‘Red Jenny is this girl.’ He pointed to the mousy dark girl at the back.

  Howlett stared at her, then turning to another officer, told him to seek out the negative for this particular photograph among the thousands they had found in Joe Chambers’s studio. ‘If he has one picture of this girl, the likelihood is that he has others. Blow this up, and then go through everything he had and see what else he had of her. And I want the whole picture. I want to know who Red Jenny knows, who else she posed with or did whatever she did with. Someone must know her better than this batty old whore.’

  The officer disappeared and left Winston alone with Howlett. Howlett looked at him. ‘How much did she tell you?’

  Winston took out his shorthand notebook and calmly reported every word she had spoken. The moral question about disclosing sources was now irrelevant. In fact he half-suspected he might have been set up by the Bomb Squad in the hope of getting Miss Kathleen to say something, because clearly she was never going to talk to them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The will to escape was never there. Huckle would not be able to say that he lost his desire to seek freedom during those days of permanent night with Eyna because he never sought actively to pursue it after that first brief reconnoitre of his prison. For the first few hours of his consciousness, dream and reality, memory and nightmare, were as one, as the effects of the drug lingered in his system and clouded his mind. Always she was there: sitting by that fire; staring into the flames; or fetching him food and drink from somewhere outside where he was not allowed to go. Always he was naked. She was his jailer, but so too was she his companion. Although she dictated the terms that imprisoned him, she did it with a seeming kindness which disarmed him.

  Before they were to speak again there would be hours of testing silence. Huckle watched her from the
comfort of his pillows as she remained pensive and thoughtful by the fire, displaying a frightening ability to wait. Was it a battle of silence, he wondered at one point. But no, when she saw that he was awake, she rejoined him on the bed, her face forming into the smile that was now becoming so familiar. It wasn’t a smile of pleasure, or even of victory; it was simply a smile of strength, a reflection of what he imagined must be some inner moral conviction.

  He waited for her to speak, but again she tricked him. With a quick flourish she poured herself another drink and returned to her place by the fire. He would have liked to join her: but his nakedness prevented him, an absurd inhibition anchoring him under his sheets and in the dark, while she sat alone and in the light. He knew that he ought to have been thinking about PUMA and the threat to his children, about Sheila Fairclough and the blood-clotted hair of Joe Chambers, but it was this woman that intrigued him. So the night passed away and edged towards morning although she showed no sign of fatigue. And because Huckle had no way of telling for how long he had slept or when night became day, he had no idea of it. At last he watched her stand up and walk to the door which led to the stairs. Once again he was alone for a while. When she returned it was with more food, although this time in a smaller quantity. He ate some cold ham and drank a glass of milk, while she watched him.