by Jake Arnott
‘Leave it, Jack. A caper gone wrong. It’s no big story. Let’s just wipe our mouth and get on with it. Best thing is to lie low for a while as far as the Airport’s concerned. Chances are they’ll be pulling in the car-park mob and all. We just need to make sure no one can finger us for anything.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. Well that’s the end of Thiefrow then.’
‘Yeah. It was good while it lasted.’
‘And now we’ve got other rackets to attend to.’
‘Yeah,’ says Harry. ‘And I want you to take it easy. No more petrol bombing bookshops without my go ahead.’
Porn. And me and Beardsley’s little drugs operation. With the Airport gone at least there’ll be money coming in from them. Maybe we should cut Harry into the acid racket. Could do with some wholesale protection if we come up against any opposition. Not that we have any bother with the hairy Peace and Love types we deal to.
Beardsley gets off and we arrange to meet up later. I stay for another drink. I can tell Harry wants to talk. He pours me another brandy and then goes out and comes back with a map. More big-time criminal plans, I think. I hope not, if the Airport fiasco is anything to go by.
‘I want to show you something, Jack,’ says Harry.
‘Oh yeah? What?’
Harry smooths out the unfolded map on the coffee table. Chubby finger points at a bit of green.
‘Here’s where they found Bernie. That kid in the suitcase.’
‘Oh yeah?’
That again.
‘Tattingstone,’ he says, pointing to a little dot of a village. ‘And just along from it, here,’ he goes on, tracing a fat finger to a slightly larger dot next to a whole lot of blue, ‘is Hartwell-juxta-Mare.’
‘Hartwell.’
Juxta-Mare. It’s Latin for, by the sea. Remember Joe Meek kept saying “just a, just a” after he told us that Bernie was going to a party in a big house out in the country. Maybe he was trying to tell us something.’
‘It’s a bit of a long shot, Harry.’
Harry Starks as Sherlock Holmes. I think not.
‘No it ain’t, Jack. I know of a big country house there where they have just the kind of party Bernie might have gone to. And whose house it is. We’re going to pay him a little visit.’
Trevor drives us over in the Daimler but we could of walked. It’s only a couple of streets away. Eaton Square. Dead flash. Park the motor and Harry leads us up to the front door of one of these big houses. Trevor comes with us. Harry leans on the bell and after a while someone comes to the door. I’m half expecting a butler or a footman or something but instead there’s this flabby-faced fellow in a bow tie, grey hair swept back. He gives a little start when he sees us but you’d hardly notice as he quickly goes into genial mode.
‘Harry!’ he announces in a posh jolly voice. Sounds a bit ginned up. ‘This is a pleasure. Do come in.’
He leads us into a small hallway and I realise that it’s just a flat, not the whole house, that he lives in. Harry does the introductions. ‘Lord Thursby,’ he says. ‘Call me Teddy,’ insists the jolly little man, beaming a greedy grin at young Trevor.
‘Can I take your hat, Jack?’ he asks as he shows us through into his drawing room.
‘Er, no. I’ll keep it on if you don’t mind.’
I feel clumsy and awkward. Should really take my hat off. The done thing in posh society, I suppose. I half expect a ticking off. Instead Teddy gives me another of his grins.
‘Of course,’ he says.
This civil manner, all cultivated to put people at ease, makes me feel uneasy. I ain’t used to all this politeness. It’s intimidating. Teddy seems so relaxed and unflappable. I do notice his hand shakes a little as he pushes the door open for us, though.
We go through and Harry and Trevor settle down on a settee next to a big marble fireplace. I grab an armchair. Sort of perch on it uneasily. Its rich upholstery making me feel uncomfortable and out of place. Teddy gets us all a drink. Gin and tonics all round. He settles in the chair across from mine with a self-satisfied sigh.
‘Cheers,’ says Teddy all jovial, lifting his cut-glass tumbler.
We all repeat it like zombies. Like he’s got the upper hand.
‘So,’ he says in this rich voice of his. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Harry? And of your charming friends of course.’
‘Well, it ain’t a social call, Teddy.’
‘No,’ Teddy says with a hint of regret in his voice. ‘I somehow thought it wouldn’t be.’
Harry takes a sip of gin and plonks his glass on the coffee table.
‘Let’s stop fucking about and come to the point, Teddy,’ he says impatiently.
‘Oh dear.’ Teddy flinches a little but keeps up his polite front. ‘I do hope this isn’t going to be unpleasant. I do detest any unpleasantness.’
‘That’s precisely what it’s about. It’s very unpleasant.’
Teddy’s nervousness is beginning to show. He looks into his gin.
‘Then you better tell me what this is about,’ he says quietly.
‘Bernard Oliver,’ says Harry looking for a reaction.
Teddy shrugs.
‘Seventeen-year-old rent boy. Found cut up and in two suitcases in a field not more than five miles away from your country seat.’
Teddy traces a finger around the lip of his glass. Looks up slowly.
‘Oh,’ he says.
‘Yes. Oh. He was at one of your parties, wasn’t he Teddy?’
Teddy doesn’t look so jolly now.
‘Well he might have been.’
‘What do you mean “might have been”?’
‘Well, you can’t expect me to remember all these boys’ names. But Scotland Yard seem to think he might have been.’
‘Scotland Yard? You mean to say they’ve been to see you?’
‘Oh yes. A very high-level investigation, needless to say. The Murder Squad was kept out of it. There were some very high-ranking people at that party. The important thing was to avoid any sort of scandal. Everyone was very keen to avoid that.’
‘The murderer could have been one of the guests.’
‘It’s a possibility. Look, nothing happened at Hartwell Lodge. Nothing like that, anyway. But when the connection was made between this, well, regrettable incident and a party attended by ministers of Church and State, it was decided that the investigation would be wound down.’
‘So there was a cover up?’
‘Harry, you make it sound like there’s some sort of conspiracy. Of course there isn’t. There never is. Nobody knows what happened to this unfortunate boy. And everyone wants to keep it that way.’
‘And protect some sick bastard who might be well connected.’
‘Harry, I’d hardly expect you to get squeamish over another unsolved murder.’
Harry tenses up, eyebrows furrowing with fury, hands clenched. He’s about to say something but then he just seethes through gritted teeth. A hand unclenches to pick up his glass. Takes a big slug of gin.
‘It’s a terrible thing to have happened,’ Teddy goes on calmly. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it now. And there are other things at stake. There’s a Bill for homosexual law reform going through the Lower House at the moment. A scandal like this involving important public figures could do untold damage to it.’
‘You’re involved in that?’
‘I’m championing it in the Lords,’ says Teddy a bit smug.
‘Doesn’t that rather blow your cover, Teddy?’
‘Well,’ Teddy gives a little chuckle, ‘I always insist on my disinterest in these matters. My amateur status as it were. I always declare myself as a non-playing captain.’
‘Very fucking funny, Teddy.’
‘Now Harry, don’t be tiresome. You know that discretion is the better part of valour. And it’s an important change in the law.’
‘What, consenting adults over twenty-one? Doesn’t make me and Trevor legal. Or little Bernie for that matter.’
�
��But it’s a start, isn’t it? If we remain discreet and behave ourselves, the law will leave us alone.’
Harry grunts dismissively then gives Thursby his coldest stare.
‘Look at me, Teddy,’ he says. ‘You say no one knows who murdered Bernie. You sure about that?’
Teddy looks him in the eyes and nods.
‘Yes.’
Harry gets up and grabs Teddy by the throat. Eyes bulge and flabby face goes all red.
‘You better not be lying, Teddy.’
‘Please, Harry.’ Thursby’s deep rich voice gone all high pitched. ‘I’m telling the truth.’
Harry lets go of him and sits back down. Teddy sighs and brushes himself down. Trying to regain his composure. His bow tie’s come undone. He takes out a matching handkerchief from his top pocket and mops at his sweaty brow.
‘Any ideas?’ Harry continues.
Thursby shrugs.
‘Well, it was odd that the body was so carefully cut up and packed into these cases and then left in the middle of a ploughed field,’ he says a bit wheezy. ‘As if whoever left it there wanted it to be found. Could be blackmail of some kind. Double blackmail even. But really, Harry, I don’t know anything. It’s best left well alone.’
Harry stands up to go. Me and Trevor follow suit.
‘One more thing,’ says Harry. ‘Who supplied the boys to the party?’
Teddy’s stood up now too. He roars with laughter.
‘Don’t you remember? It was you, Harry.’
Harry looks shocked. Sways a little like a stunned bull. Trevor’s gone pale.
‘I don’t remember,’ mutters Harry frowning.
Trevor looks like he’s going to be sick. Instead he suddenly says: ‘He’s right. I organised it. We’d just met. I was still on the game then. You gave me two hundred quid to gather together some boys for this party. I was going to go down myself. You gave me another fifty to stay with you instead.’
‘You see?’ Teddy declares a little triumphantly. ‘You’re implicated in this as well, Harry.’
Harry starts asking Trevor questions as soon as we get back to his flat.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Tell you what? I’d forgotten all about it. I never thought it had anything to do with Bernie’s murder.’
‘You should have thought.’
This is becoming like an interrogation. Trevor looks pale.
‘I was thinking of going down,’ he says quietly, full of fear for what might have been. ‘Could have been me what got cut up.’
Harry ignores the comment. Carries on the questioning. Time for me to go. Got to meet Beardsley in Tottenham.
‘Tell me all the names of the other boys that went down,’ Harry demands, hardly noticing me make my excuses.
‘I don’t remember, Harry.’
‘Then start remembering.’
We’re in this pub with a little dancehall attached to it just off Tottenham High Road. Full of Beardsley types. Cropped hair, boots and braces, Crombies and Sta-Press trousers. A few sporting little pork-pie hats like junior versions of old Jack. Baldheads, I decide to call them. Mad chicka-chicka-chicka music on the jukebox. Baldheads stomping along to it in formation boot dance.
Me and Beardsley recounting the Airport fuck up with post-job bravado. We can laugh about it now. Beardsley’s got no idea who might have grassed. We both make filthy oaths of nasty revenge even though it’s unlikely we’ll ever get our hands on the nark.
Then on to the main item of business. Beardsley’s made contact with a couple of big acid customers. A hippy party in Hampstead in the next couple of nights and a fellah over in Ladbroke Grove. I just got to get the gear off Marty and we’ll meet up the day after tomorrow in the Mildmay Tavern.
Go for a piss. Fresh graffiti above the urinal. PAKIS OUT. Hear a ruckus in the car park as I come out of the bogs. A small gang of greasers is shaping up. Baldheads pouring out of the boozer. The greebos are game enough, swinging motorbike chains and putting it about a bit lively. But they’re outnumbered. Beardsley leads the charge and they go down for a right good kicking.
Get into the Zodiac and head east. Stop off at the Regency for a late one. Take it easy. Don’t want to ruffle any feathers there. One of the Kray firm lets it drop that there’s a job going. The Twins want somebody doing. A hint that it could be a ticket to being back on their firm. I say I’ll think about it.
Next day and Harry wants me to drive out with him to Suffolk to where this kid’s body was found. I ain’t keen.
‘Come on, Harry,’ I say. ‘You know what that toff friend of yours said. It’s best left alone.’
‘I promise, Jack,’ he says. ‘This is the last time. I just want to see for myself.’
See what? Maybe he just needs to put it all to rest somehow.
So off we go for a drive in the country. Up through Essex. Past Colchester and into East Anglia. The land flattens out and the sky gets bigger. Big bright clouds hang above the long horizon, gloomy fields of sugar beet stretch out below. We reach Hartwell-juxta-Mare. Pretty little seaside village. Cliffside road takes us up to Hartwell Lodge. Big mansion with a good view of the North Sea.
‘Right,’ says Harry, taking the next turn. ‘This is the road to Tattingstone. The killing could have happened somewhere along here. So keep your eyes peeled.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘I don’t know,’ Harry mutters. ‘I don’t know.’
We drive along to the actual field where the kid was found. Harry’s got map references and everything. But we don’t spot nothing. We get out of the motor and Harry snoops about the hedgerow gloomily.
Well, that’s it then, I think. We can go home and forget about it. Get on with some serious business. But Harry wants to drive back along the route just to make sure.
About three miles up the road from Tattingstone, Harry notices a little track leading off into a patch of woodland. Didn’t notice it on the way over. Harry stops the car, reverses back and turns up into it.
‘Let’s have a little shufti up here,’ he says.
The bumpy old track winds up into a little clearing among a few weatherbeaten trees. There’s a battered old caravan sitting there. Harry looks at me, eyes bulging a bit with tension as we pull up. Harry reaches down to in front of the driver’s seat and pulls out a shooter he’s got tucked away by the pedals. Tucks it into his waistband and winks over at me.
‘Let’s see if anyone’s at home.’
We get out and walk slowly up to the caravan. Filthy curtains drawn on all its windows. Harry raps on the door.
‘Hello?’ he calls, one hand fingering at the gun butt poking out of his trousers.
I nearly laugh. All this suspense and it’s probably just some gyppo’s doss hole. Harry knocks again.
‘Anybody there?’
No reply. Nothing.
Harry tries the door, rattling the little handle. Locked. Starts to make to force it with his shoulder then thinks again. Fishes in his pocket and pulls out the car keys. Hands them to me.
‘There’s a crowbar in the boot,’ he says.
I fetch it and jemmy open the little metal door. We go in. Nasty butcher’s-shop pong. Harry clicks on a gloomy little lightbulb. A chamber of horrors. Pages of homo porn mags torn out and sellotaped all over blood-smeared walls and windows. Hacksaw and set of butcher’s knives on a little table in the middle of the room. A coil of rope and a pair of handcuffs on the floor. A couple of blood-caked scalpels rusting in a tiny wash basin. Kilner jars with things floating in them. Human organs. Suitcase Murder newspaper clippings scattered everywhere. Anatomy textbook lying open on a chair.
I nearly puke. Harry’s got this mad gleam in his eye.
‘We’ve got the bastard,’ he hisses.
‘How did the Murder Squad miss all of this?’ I ask.
‘Well, they weren’t looking, were they? They were put off the scent once the Hartwell Lodge party was covered up. It’ll be no use going to them no
w.’
Harry goes over and touches the kettle on the stove.
‘So what are we going to do?’ I ask.
‘Feel that.’
I put my hand to the kettle. There’s an ever so faint warmth to it.
‘Someone’s been here recently. That means they might be coming back.’
‘So we’re going to wait for them?’
‘Yeah. But first I’ve got to hide the motor. We give the game away if they see that.’
He walks to the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ I say. ‘You leaving me here?’
‘What’s the matter? You scared?’
Harry’s grinning. Goading me.
‘Course not.’
Harry laughs and pulls out the gun.
‘Here, take this,’ he says, handing it to me. ‘You might need it if anyone turns up. Don’t kill them. I want them alive.’
And he goes. I pick up the anatomy book and sit down in the chair. Try to make myself comfortable. The gun’s a .38 revolver. The weight of it in my hand is reassuring. I pull the broken door to and settle back down again. Watching the door. Listening out. It’s starting to get dark. Strange hooting country noises in the air. Otherwise it’s quiet. Dead quiet. I start to feel tired. Search my pocket for black bombers but just come up with lint and old betting slips. I’m knackered. Haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in a donkey’s age. Stretch and yawn. Put the revolver down on the table near to where I can get it and lean back a bit. Fingers lace behind my neck, cradling it. Pull some hat-brim down and give my eyes a bit of a rest from the bare lightbulb. Harry’s taking his time. Drift off a bit.
Feel someone prod my arm and give a bit of a start like you do sometimes when you’re just nodding off.
‘Harry?’ I mutter, pushing back the hat from my brow.
I blink and see the barrel of the gun pointing at my face.
‘Don’t fuck about, Harry,’ I say, a bit tetchy.
I blink again and see that it ain’t Harry holding the gun. It’s a little weasel-faced bloke grinning down at me.
‘What the fuck?’ I gasp.
‘Expecting someone else, were we? And who would that be?’
He clicks the hammer back for emphasis.
‘No . . . n . . . no one,’ I stammer. ‘My dog. Harry’s the name of my dog. I was just taking it for a walk. It ran off and I was looking for it when I got tired, and I just thought I’d have a little rest until it came back.’
