The young man shot to his feet, still pushing his hair back from his forehead, his eyes like spinning plates.
“Giles Somerset, please call me Giles.” He extended his hand, fretfully shaking with both of them, his palm slippery with sweat. Absent-mindedly, he wiped it on his trousers before sitting back down. “Look, officer, can you tell me what's going on? I got home to find old Dodson at his smelling salts with a policeman saying the place has been burgled and no one can get hold of Father. I get here and no one will answer my questions, then I'm put in a cell as if I'm the one under suspicion. Is this normally the way you do things?”
“This isn't a cell, sir,” said Cooper, “it's an interview room. We've brought you in here to keep things private. You don't want the world and his wife to be hearing what you've been saying at the front desk now do you?”
Giles Somerset grimaced. “I see. Well, I suppose I appreciate that,” he said.
“Now then,” Cooper continued, “we've apprehended the fellow caught breaking into your father's house and everything he was attempting to make off with. Once my CID lads have finished searching the miscreant, we'll begin questioning him. But just for background, do you mind if we ask you a few questions pertaining to your father's house and business?”
Pete saw a number of emotions pass over the young man's face as Cooper spoke, almost as if he was reading his thoughts. Shock, fear and then a sly kind of cunning settled across his features as he lounged back on his uncomfortable seat.
“No, not at all,” he said, spreading his fingers out on the desk in front of him. For a moment he seemed to be studying his nails, then he looked up, those round blue eyes attempting a choirboy's look of innocence.
“What do you need to know?”
“Your father's background sir, I believe he's a peer of the realm?”
“That's right,” Somerset said. “Though he's on his summer recess now, which is probably why you can't find him. He tends to spend as many of his evenings at St James as possible.”
“That's his club, is it sir?”
“That's right. It's so discreet you practically vanish when you go through the door. Perfect for people like Father who don't like to be disturbed.”
“He's a military man I believe?”
“Yes.” Somerset's eyes swept the floor. “Royal Fusiliers. Goes back centuries, our family and that regiment, all the way back to Monmouth's Rebellion, if you really want to know. Even old Dodson's a relic from South Africa, as he no doubt told you.”
Pete traded glances with Cooper, wondering if they were thinking the same thing. Old Somerset sounded like he was a fellow to be proud of but his son's tone was dull, verging on disgusted.
“Are you his only son, sir?” Cooper asked.
“No, I'm just the last one he was capable of. The others all followed in father's footsteps and won honours fighting Jerry. I'm afraid I was still in my cot at the time. Look, how is this helping you anyway? Shouldn't you be quizzing that blasted burglar instead of me?”
“We're coming to that,” said Cooper, rearranging his tie, a signal for Pete to take over.
Sensing an opening in Somerset's agitation, Pete went in obtuse. “Are you an admirer of Oswald Mosley, sir?” he asked, keeping his tone mild.
Somerset recoiled, a feint of disgust mixed with anger and a glimpse of genuine fear.
“Mosley?” he said and coughed. “That traitor? That fascist? What on earth do you ask me that for?”
“Well.” Pete leaned forward, still keeping the smile on his face. “It's just that I could have sworn I saw you at his rally earlier this evening. On Lancaster Road, round about seven thirty?”
“You must be mistaken.” Somerset tried to regain his composure, but his foot had started jiggling up and down again, beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
“That's a very distinctive jacket you've got on,” said Pete.
“These jackets are all the rage.” Somerset's tone turned scornful. “Not that I'd expect a plod like you to know it. Besides, I've been at a friend's all evening, in Kensington. A friend,” he smiled grimly, “who will be able to vouch for me if you're going to carry on with this ridiculous line.”
“Well, that's nice to know,” said Pete. “Because just before I set eyes on this fellow who looked just like you, I had decided to follow a notorious criminal I spotted coming out of the Kensington Park Hotel. You won't believe what happened next. This recidivist gentleman had a conversation with your look-a-like, round the back of the Elgin public house. He then went on to collect a toolbag, amble up the hill and casually break into your father's house. How do you credit that, eh, sir?”
Somerset's face turned a chalky white. “Look,” he finally said. “I told you. I was in Kensington all evening. I can prove it.”
“Right, if we could just have the details of the person you were with, we'll get a conformation on that,” Cooper said. “Then if you don't mind waiting a few minutes more, we'll be right back with you. I'm sure you appreciate we have to do everything by the book.”
Hatred blazed in Somerset's eyes as he spat out a name and number. On the other side of the door, Cooper handed the information to Pete.
“I think you're right, he's in on it, the devious little sod. You follow this up, I need to know what CID have got, then we'll continue our little conversation. Dugdale,” he called to the constable who had previously been attending to Somerset and was now loitering further down the corridor smoking and staring at the ceiling, “get back here smart and stand guard of this one. Don't let anyone else in here besides myself and PC Bradley.”
Pete hoofed it back to his desk, the rest of the room a chaotic babble, the result of George's collar and the Teds in the cells downstairs. Officers worked the phones chainsmoking, slammed in and out of the neighbouring CID office and bashed away at their typewriters, letting out whoops and expletives as they did so.
He put one hand over his ear as the operator put him through to the number Somerset had given, KENSINGTON 4242. The address was a mansion on Melbury Road. Pete tried to picture it as the phone rang. Corner of Holland Park; very grand, very secluded.
“Minton residence,” came a voice on the other end of the line.
“Good evening sir, may I speak with Miss Jennifer Minton?”
“I'm not sure if Miss Minton is at home, I'm afraid. May I ask who is calling?”
Pete smiled. “Certainly, sir, this is PC Bradley at Notting Hill Police Station.”
He heard the intake of breath. “Just one moment, sir, I'll see if I can find her for you.”
“Thank you,” said Pete, his smile deepening as he caught sight of another aid, Dick Willcox, threading his way through the desks towards him, brandishing the evening paper.
“Pete,” he said, dropping the rolled up linen down on his desk, “page 28 when you've got a minute. That tip I was telling you about.” He winked and about-turned, hurrying back across the floor.
“Hello,” said a female voice on the other end of the receiver. “This is Jennifer Minton. What do you want?”
She sounded bored and annoyed in equal measure. Pete pictured a female mirror image of the man in the interview room downstairs.
“Sorry to disturb you Miss Minton,” Pete laid the Yorkshire on thick and slow, “I've got a young fellow here who's just come home to find his house has been burgled. It's been a nasty shock for him, as you can imagine and he's still rather upset about it all. He says that he's been with you this evening and I just need to confirm that that is the case. I don't like to have to do this, but it is routine.”
“Are you sure you're a policeman?” the voice came back. “Only you haven't told me his name.” There was a pause that he didn't rush to fill.
“I take it you mean Giles?” she said.
“That's right,” Pete said, thinking, damn, she obviously wasn't the mirror of Somerset; she was smarter than that.
“Yes,” she said, sounding more annoyed than bored now. “Giles came for supper at
six o’clock, probably left about an hour ago. Is that everything you need to know?”
“Yes, thank you Miss Minton,” said Pete, “you've been very helpful.”
Helpful to lover boy, he thought, as he put the receiver down. He knew his eyes hadn't deceived him. Somerset must have set his alibi up before his meet with Gypsy George, or maybe Miss Minton had thought it up for him. The lad himself didn't seem capable of such foresight, whereas she sounded sharper than one of those cut-throat razors the Teds downstairs were so fond of gouging each other with.
Cursing this turn of events he reached for the paper Willcox had left, turned to page 28. There, on a scrap of paper, was written:
Filth. Cine film and two envelopes of prints and negs.
Pete's mind turned in a somersault. Willcox had been an aid slightly longer than he had and they'd often paired up on patrols where they'd developed a nice rapport. Willcox's passion for racing was matched by Pete's for boxing so any time they wanted to trade information that was supposedly off limits to them, they'd pretend it was their latest tip and pass it across, hidden in the sports pages. Willcox had obviously hung around CID long enough to get wind of George's haul.
What kind of filth? Pete wondered as he ripped the paper into shreds over the dregs of a cup of tea left on his desk, then tossed the sodden mess in the bin, the image of Bobby Clarke's dead body floating unbidden into his mind's eye.
Whose filth? He hurried out of the room, through the desks and the chaos and back along the corridor, down the stairs to the interview rooms. Father's or son's? Was the son blackmailing the father or did he need George to liberate something his father had on him? And would Cooper divulge any of this to him or would he now want to continue the interview alone?
Cooper was outside the door of Interview Room 3, pacing, one of the bulging envelopes in his left hand, cigarette smoked down to the filter in his right. For a man who usually exuded unflappable calm, he was beginning to look pretty frayed at the edges.
“Bradley,” he said, dropping the butt down on the floor and stamping on it. “What did she say?”
“What he said she would. He was with her from six o’clock 'til ten o’clock.”
“I see.” Cooper grimaced. “Well…”
“Derek Cooper, me old darlin’!” a voice boomed down the corridor.
Their heads snapped round. Striding towards them was a huge, thickset man with black hair plastered back over a bulging forehead, a red sweaty face bearing the grin of a satisfied carnivore. He wore a well-cut black suit, white shirt and what looked like a regimental tie, which went with the Sergeant Major's bearing and bark. Loitering slightly behind him was a man in a scruffy mac and sticking up sandy hair.
“Oh Christ,” said Cooper.
Pete honed in on the sandy man, heard Dai Jones’ voice in his head. “They shipped him out to West End Central with all the other spivs and gangsters.”
Francis Bream. If he recognised Pete, he didn't show any signs of it.
The big man drew level and in one swipe lifted the envelope from Cooper's hands.
“You won't be needing this, me old son,” he said, eyeball to eyeball with the other man. “You've done a sound job so far, but now Uncle Harry's taking over.”
Cooper's face flushed. “On whose orders?” he asked, a tremor in his voice.
“Only Scotland Yard's finest.” The big man's smile deepened to the point where Pete could imagine him biting Cooper's head clean off. “The orders of DI Reginald Bell.”
Behind him, Bream's eyes darted around, not stopping on Pete's for a second.
“That means our light-fingered Romany friend, too. He's coming with us, back to the bright lights of the West End, where his presence is long overdue. I've got something very special lined up for O’Hanrahan, don't you worry.”
He clapped Cooper round the back, nearly pitching him over. The DS recoiled, coughing, humiliated.
“Frankie boy.” The big man turned to his comrade. “Get in there and deal with young Somerset, I'll be helping myself to our friend George. Derek me old beauty, if you could just show me the way.”
Bream's eyes finally met with Pete's, but there was no visible recognition. He merely smiled and shrugged, then opened the door of the interview room.
“This way,” said Cooper.
The big man gave a theatrical bow and Pete made to move aside.
“You're the arresting officer aren't you?” he said, locking in with eyes as dark as Gypsy George's. “Peter Bradley, is that right son?”
“Sir.” Pete returned the stare.
“Detective Sergeant Harold Wesker. But my friends call me Harry. Good work old son, that is one devious bastard you got bang to rights this evening. You obviously have the bollocks required to make a proper policeman,” he said, looking across at Cooper as if that wasn't a quality he shared. “I won't forget your name. Now quick march, Derek, the gypsy king requires my presence.”
Towards dawn, when Pete was finally typing up his report, Dick Willcox sidled up to his desk again.
“Dick,” Pete said. “Tell us something. Who the bloody hell is DS Harold Wesker when he's at home?”
Dick glanced backwards to make sure no one was listening. “Harry Wesker? Alternatively known as The Bastard. He's West End Central's top man on vice, which is why he took over the show here as soon as he got wind of it. Got your number did he?”
Pete nodded. “Afraid so.”
“Well, look out Pete. He used to run undercover ops with the SAS during the War and his nickname stems from his unsubtle but ultimately successful interview methods. He really is the biggest bastard in the Met.”
“Aye,” said Pete, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “That's what I were afraid of.”
8 LONELY BOY
“Do you know something?” said Lenny, standing back from the tailor's dummy. “I think you could do this for a living. You've got the eye.”
It was only a simple shift dress. But the black and white pattern silk-screened onto it, along with the swinging line from the armpit to the hem, turned it into something quite startling. In theory, it was an exercise in 3-D Art that was part of my coursework. But really, it was a kind of test I'd done on myself, to see if I really did have a flair for dress design.
“Well thank you,” I said, feeling a rush of pride. “I couldn't have done it without you.”
“It's a pleasure dear, it really is.” There was a wisp of sadness in his voice.
I had found Lenny sitting disconsolately on his doorstep one evening just after the AGOG party, staring up the road and smoking, the pile of butts at his feet suggesting he had been there for some time. Toby was staying late at college that night, so I invited my neighbour in to share supper and whatever was troubling him. As he picked his way through his omelette, Lenny explained that James had got himself a new job in North London, where he could build his own studios and run his own label. It was a live-in arrangement, so he had moved out that day, and though Lenny tried to sound pleased about the opportunities it presented for his friend, it didn't seem as if they had parted on the best of terms.
I hadn't actually got to meet James on the night of the party and I couldn't tell Lenny why I was glad about that. Just as I couldn't explain to Toby the real reason that I had to leave shortly after Jenny had propelled me downstairs, excusing myself instead with the line I had given her, that I had a migraine and needed to lie down in a darkened room.
Well, it was half true.
I kept to myself what had happened with Mya. It was all too uncomfortably similar to the night of my dream, to long-buried memories of my Grandma's house and all the other things I thought I had left behind. So I couldn't help feeling relieved at Lenny's news – no more late night musical horror shows. Which I guiltily masked in a show of sympathy, telling him that he was welcome to come round any time he wanted.
We had become pretty close since then, and during our conversations he had revealed that he had originally apprenticed as a tailor befo
re he worked in the bank. Lenny seemed wistful when he talked about those days, which gave me the idea to see if we could turn my Op Art into a dress.
Jackie was studying Textiles as part of her course, so I got her to sneak us into the department one night and show us how to set up a silk screen. I couldn't tell which Lenny was more delighted with: the magic of the pattern appearing on the cloth or Jackie herself. Seeing them together was like watching a reverse mirror image – he with his brusier's demeanour softened by silk shirts and little, elfin Jackie with her cropped hair and jeans. They had got on so well I was hoping that something more might come of it.
“I can't wait for Jackie to see it.” I gave him a sideways glance. “I wonder what she'll think.”
“She'll love it.” Lenny's gaze remained firmly upon the creation as I spoke, then he turned to me and smiled. “It was a bit of a team effort wasn't it? Now you should get someone gorgeous to model it for you and see if you can get any orders.”
“Hmmm,” I said, thinking, I know the very person. But I hadn't seen Jenny since the party either. She'd apparently rowed with Dave towards the end of the night and flounced off in a huff, no one had seen her since. I wondered if it was worth trying to get in touch with her and asking her to wear it for my end of term show, or whether I should just leave well enough alone.
“It all makes me realise, I should be doing something to sort my life out,” Lenny said. “All that old claut of James's that's still cluttering my place up, I need to get rid of it.” He shook his head. “It's obvious he isn't going to come back for it. I might as well sell the lot and have a fresh start.”
“Well,” I said. “If you need a hand, we'd be happy to help.”
‘Claut’ was an understatement. Inside Lenny's flat you could hardly move for boxes, cables, an old piano and all manner of amplifiers and broken musical instruments. Piles of music papers covered every surface and his shelves heaved under a weight of books. A thin layer of dust covered it all.
Bad Penny Blues Page 9
