“So,” I tried to rationalise what she was telling me, “you think that these experiments in sound somehow helped me to tune into them?”
Mya nodded. “By accident rather than design. The man who was making the music opened up the channel and you tuned in. Did you know him very well?”
“No,” I said. “I never actually met him. But the man who used to share the flat with him, I am very close to. Only it's impossible that he could have anything to do with this. He was dead against the séances, he had nothing to do with them.”
From what I'd seen in Lenny's flat, it was James who was the malign influence. But there was someone else, wasn't there, who linked me to him?
“Dave Dilworth.” I snapped my fingers. “You know, who borrowed the stuffed animals from Cedric. He started a band and this man, James Myers is his name, is producing them. Their records are,” I shivered at the memory, “very sinister. Like horror movie music. They were the soundtrack to the second vision I had, to Bronwyn Evans. And then this last one too.”
Mya put her fingertips together, closed her eyes. I recalled how fond Cedric had been of Dave, wondered if that was why she frowned.
She sat there like that for some time. As the clock ticked away the minutes, I wondered if she had fallen asleep, if the effort of all this had been too much. Then she suddenly opened her eyes, leaning forwards in her seat.
“Go and see him,” she said. “He'll tell you something you need to know.”
“I don't know.” I was flustered now. Surely she didn't think Dave…?
“I'm not saying that.” She had read my thoughts again. “Spirit has shown you many things to guide you, but what we do here on Earth is our own responsibility. Now, I have a message from your pa.”
I caught my breath. The only time I had ever wished for the gift was to hear from Pa again. But I never had, not in all these years.
Mya smiled. “He says for you to take courage. Try not to be afraid, he walks beside you always and protects you with his love. He says,” she gave a soft chuckle, looking to her right as if Pa was actually sitting there, talking to her, “there are no dead.”
I felt tears spring into my eyes. “But what can I do?” I asked. “The police can't seem to solve this case, the first girl died five years ago. You're not telling me that I can?”
“No, I'm not.” Mya's eyes were gentle now. “But you can help. You might be surprised, but not all policemen are sceptics. I have a very good friend at the Notting Hill police, a detective no less, who would listen to anything you could tell him. Now dear,” she leaned herself onto the arms of the chair, slowly rose to her feet, “I think we have both done enough for today. Please, think about what I've said and know that my door is always open. Don't keep your troubles to yourself any more. You have seen these things for a reason and now you should act upon your knowledge.”
When I stepped outside onto Lansdowne Road I was almost surprised by the sunshine. I felt like I'd been inside the Spiritualist's for days, in a world between light and shade. I stared up at the tower opposite for a moment, thinking about all that Mya had said. Then I crossed the road and walked back towards Ladbroke Grove.
23 ALL DAY AND ALL OF THE NIGHT
The door creaked open to the shabby house on Westbourne Grove, a rotten door with peeling paintwork, sagging on its hinges like an old itinerant stooped over his bundle of rags. The man who opened it was similarly careworn, small with very pale skin and what was left of his hair combed across his balding dome in greasy strands, a tatty old brown cardigan over a stained yellow shirt and grey trousers shiny with age. He stared through bottle-thick glasses in black National Health frames held together by sticky tape, his top lip twitching, revealing yellowing teeth.
“Hello Ernie,” said Dick Willcox.
“Fucking hell,” said Ernie Tidsall as Dick and Pete pushed past him into the hall.
“Up here, is it?” Dick started running up the stairs, while Pete put a restraining hand on the little man's shoulder. He reeked of sweat and stale cigarette smoke, and something else; a chemical smell that Pete realised must be that of developing fluid and stop lotion. The suspect was a photographer, after all.
“Wh-whaddyou want?” Ernie squirmed under Pete's grasp as Dick's size tens crashed around upstairs. “I ain't done nothing.”
“Yep,” Dick shouted from above. “We've come to the right place.”
Pete smiled at the little man. It was not a pleasant smile, as it didn't reach his eyes, which bored into the brown pupils behind Ernie's specs with an intimidating intensity.
“Good,” he shouted back then said to Ernie: “Would you care to show me around?”
Ernie shrank from under him and his voice went up several octaves.
“Look, what's this all about? I'm telling you, I ain't done nothing.”
“Nobody ever has, have they Ernie?” replied Pete. “Now I've asked you nicely to show us around, so please,” he took his arm off Ernie's shoulder and pointed it in the direction of the stairs, “be a good lad and don't give us no bother.”
Ernie screwed up his face and balled his fists, stamped his foot in rage. He looked like a petulant mole. “Bloody bogeys!” he screamed.
Pete continued to point at the stairs.
“Get up there Ernie,” he said. “I'm not telling you again.”
Ernie's shoulders slumped. Cursing and muttering, he did what he was told.
Dick stood lounged against a doorway on the first floor. In his hand was a black and white photograph of a naked woman. A naked woman trussed up with ropes and a gag in her mouth.
“Regular little David Bailey we've got here,” he said to Pete. “Here's his studio.” He pointed through the doorway to a sparsely furnished room, painted white, with two spotlights and a screen, a camera on a tripod in front of an old brass bed made up with black satin sheets. “And behind us is his dark room. A very dark room if this one's anything to go by.”
Pete took the picture and studied it hard. He didn't recognise the woman but he recognised the look in her eyes. Bombed out, vacant, gone.
“Look!” Ernie had begun stamping his feet again, dust flying up from the hallway carpet. “You can't just barge in here and do what you like! You ain't got a warrant!”
“Oh sorry, Ernie,” Dick put his hand inside his jacket and took the document out, “do you mean this? We just wanted to make sure we had the right place first. Now we know that we have, everything's all official and above board and Scotland Yard are just a phone call away. I'm sure they'd love to see what you've got set up here.”
Ernie's face turned red and then green as he peered at the paperwork.
“But there's no need for us to call them yet,” said Pete, blocking the top of the stairs with his full frame in case Ernie got any ideas about running away. “We just want a little chat with you, about an old friend of yours. Tell us what we need to know and we might just leave you in peace.”
Ernie took his spectacles off, mopped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief taken from his trouser pocket. Another cloud of chemical vapour hit the air as he did.
“What friend?” he said weakly.
“I think you know,” said Dick. “You've probably got the negatives of her back there, and we've got plenty of time to check.”
“Susannah,” Ernie said. “Geordie Sue.”
“That's right,” said Pete. “Now we're getting there.”
The blonde had been right about Ernie. Most of the girls on the Bayswater, Holland Park beat knew the one-time smudger for The Kensington Post who'd found an easier way of acquiring his own studios than the tedious grind of a local rag. A few folk at the Post still remembered him, with about as much fondness as his current crop of models. Ernie was the sort of guy who gave everyone the creeps, especially the women. Or so Dick's mate on the Sports desk had told them, over a few jars in his local, as he passed across Ernie's address from the files. It was on Westbourne Grove, confirming the blonde's story.
They'd kept the
gaff under obs for a while, watched a couple of women come and go out of the front door, Ernie's silhouette moving behind the blinds and the tell-tale red light of his dark room. It wasn't hard to get the warrant. All leads on Houghton's killer were considered high priority.
“Why don't you have a seat?” said Dick, picking up a black vinyl barstool from beside the bed in his studio and plonking it down in the middle of the spotlights. “Tell us a bit more about Geordie Sue.”
Ernie had stopped his stamping now, turned very white and started shaking. Sweat was rolling off his forehead faster than he could mop it up with his hankie.
“Sh-she was just a tart,” Ernie said, cowering, his fingers resting on the side of the barstool, not wanting to sit. “Like all the rest. There weren't nothing special about Sue.”
“Oh aye?” Pete wandered over to one of the spotlights, found the switch and turned it on. Watched Ernie flinch, put up his hand as if he was about to be physically assaulted. “That's not what we heard. We've been told Susannah was a girl with a lot of special talents, a useful lass for a man like yourself.”
“Very special talents, Ernie.” Dick leaned close to the smudger's sweaty face. “’Cos let's face it, she weren't exactly your classic pin-up material, now was she?” He strolled over to the other lamp. “She weren't no Diana Dors.” There was a fizzling noise then a snap as he turned it on. “Not even a Christine Keeler. Here Ernie, you never did any shots of her did you? ’Cos now they could be worth a few bob.”
“No!” Ernie screamed. “I never knew Christine Keeler, I never knew Mandy Rice-Davies, or the doctor or any of them! You said this was about Geordie Sue, not about them!”
Dick and Pete exchanged a glance and at the same time both began to walk in a circle around Ernie and between the lights, the Blakeys on their shoes loud on the linoleum floor, their footsteps slow, insistent. Ernie continued to grip the side of the stool without sitting, unsure of where to look now, getting hotter under the spots by the second.
“No need to get touchy, Ernie.” Dick continued to keep his tone light, friendly. “Tell us about Geordie Sue then, how did you meet her? Were you formally introduced?”
“No,” Ernie said, still mopping his brow. “I met her at the coffee stand, what do you think? Just another scrubber willing to drop her knickers for a few quid, there's enough of them out there, you should know.”
“She did more than just drop her knickers, though, didn't she Ernie?” Pete said. There was a horrible smell in this room, underneath the chemicals and the fag smoke. Of old sweat and dried semen, of spilt booze and cheap perfume, of degradation and disgust. “Is this how you shoot them, Ernie, under these lights? Gets a bit hot, doesn't it? Not very comfortable, I shouldn't think.”
“What do you care?” Ernie snapped back. “It's easy enough for them. I don't touch them, I don't hurt them, they get paid and everybody's happy. I do them a favour. It's safer for them than…”
He stopped himself short.
“Getting into a car with a strange man?” Dick finished the sentence for him. “A strange man who could be a killer?”
Ernie's shoulders heaved. “I didn't kill her,” he said, his voice wobbling, on the edge of tears. “I ain't seen her. The last job she did for me was before Christmas, a bit extra to buy some toys for her kid, that's all it was and I ain't seen her since. I swear to God.”
“What kind of pictures?” asked Dick. “A nice Nativity scene, was it? Susannah as the Virgin Mary?”
Ernie looked at the floor, hands wringing at his sopping hanky.
“I can easily check.” Dick moved towards the door.
“No,” said Ernie waving a hand like a drowning man. “It was a group shot. That's what I used her for, mainly. Not many girls are up for that scene, not the young ones anyway. Not the pretty ones. But you can get away with using the older tarts for them ones. No one really looks at their faces.”
“Who are your clients, Ernie?” Pete stopped walking for a second, turned and faced the little man. “Who do you sell the photos to?”
Ernie shook his head, still looking at the floor. Farted loudly, bowels coming loose with the agitation. Another bad smell to add to the miasma in this room.
“That wasn't,” the smudger whispered, twisting the hanky round and round in his hands, “that wasn't what you said you wanted to know.”
“Well you haven't told us much yet have you?” Dick bellowed into his earhole.
“I don't think he wants to,” said Pete. “I don't think he understands the notion of a polite chat. Perhaps we'd better just call Scotland Yard after all.”
“Or take him down the station. I'm sure the boys would love to take a look at Ernie's family album.”
Ernie looked from Pete to Dick and back to Pete again. He was quivering all over, ready to collapse. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a little brown bottle of prescription pills, shook a couple loose into his hand and swallowed them.
“All right then, arrest me,” the little man said, finding a reserve of courage from his medication. “At least then I'll be entitled to a solicitor. I ain't telling you nothing more, you bastard bogeys.”
“He's an old hand isn't he?” said Dick, looking mildly amused.
“He might well be,” agreed Pete, looking anything but, “but it didn't take us long to find him. You should have been a lot more careful, shouldn't you Ernie?”
Ernie held his tongue.
“Better get us a bunch of lads to help us, make sure we don't leave anything behind,” said Dick. “Looks like there's too much for us to carry in that dark room. Phone was in the hallway, wasn't it, Ernie?”
Pete read Ernie his rights as Dick summoned the radio car. Ernie said nothing, wrapped his arms around himself like a child and stared at the floor.
“Who are you scared of, Ernie?” Pete whispered as the siren sounded down Bayswater Road. “Who's worse than being arrested?”
Ernie continued to stare at the floor, said nothing.
24 OH, PRETTY WOMAN
“Is there anybody there?”
Jackie made a knocking motion at the side of my head.
“Sorry,” I said, turning away from the window, through which I had been staring blankly at the wall opposite, and back round towards her. “I was miles away.”
“That I can see.” Jackie sat herself down on the corner of the table, folded her arms. “You've been off with the fairies all afternoon. Something troubling you, pet?”
“Well, sort of.” I looked past her to where Lenny was hunched over his desk, tapping away on his little adding machine, a pencil clenched between his teeth.
Jackie raised an eyebrow. “S’all right,” she said. “He can't hear you. He's so locked in his world of financial intrigue he wouldn't even notice if a troupe of naked dancing boys came through here doing the can-can. Would you Lenny?”
She raised her voice as she asked the question.
Lenny continued tap-tapping away, eyes locked on his ledger.
“So,” she turned back round to me again, “come on, let's have it.”
“It's…” Jackie had at least managed to make me smile. But I could tell from her demeanour she wasn't going to let it just lie there. “Well, it's a bit hard to explain. I mean, it's not that I don't want to tell you, it's just a bit… awkward.”
“Ah,” she nodded, “would a drink help you to spit it out?”
“It might do, actually,” I said, thinking about the empty house I would otherwise be going back to. Toby had finished his canvases now and Pat had taken him over to the States with them, to San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York. He would be away for a month this time, our longest ever time apart.
“Good,” she said. “There's this place I've been meaning to take you.” She winked, slid off the table. “We can leave him to count his pots of cash.”
Round the corner of the King's Road on Bramerton Street, illuminated by a solitary lamppost, was a green door in a high white wall, a gateway to a secret world.
“This is the place,” said Jackie. “I've been scoping it out for a while, reckon you'll like it. It's kind of,” she smiled mischievously, “interesting, shall we say.”
The woman behind the green door looked like Cleopatra, or at least, the way Liz Taylor played her, all thick black eyeliner and thick black hair. She stared at us through the smoke of the black Sobranie that rested on her bottom lip, with glittering eyes to match the décor of the entrance.
“Hello Jacks,” she said in a voice that was as theatrical as her appearance. “And what do we have here?” She removed the cigarette with fingers that flashed with rings and ended with purple-painted talons, fixing her gaze on me.
“This is Stella Reade,” said Jackie, “my business partner. Stella, this is Gina, she runs the show here.”
“Just business?” A smile twitched at the corner of the woman's mouth as she offered me her hand. “Bona. Now, the rules here are simple: Jackie vouches for you and signs you in, you pay me ten shillings for the privilege and if either of you can't handle your shandies like ladies, you'll be out on your ear. We don't like having to entertain Miss Lilly around here. All right, darling?”
“Er…” Her grip was hard and I couldn't understand half of what she was saying. “Yes,” I replied as she finally released me. “That's fine, thank you.”
I dropped the money into her upturned palm and followed Jackie down the vertiginous steps to the basement bar.
The square cellar room was thick with smoke and bodies. Heads turned as we navigated our way through, nostrils finely tuned to the smell of interloper. Some of them flashed hostile glances, others deliberately pressed themselves against me, smirking as I tried not to notice. The way half of them were built and dressed you would never have guessed that they weren't actually men.
“What you having?” Jackie finally elbowed her way through to the counter, nodding at the stout, cropped-haired blonde at the bar.
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