Duffy (12 page)

‘Then the coppers got sorted out, or rather they didn’t really get sorted out, just packed off for an early retirement and all their winnings stacked safely away in their wives’ names. It’s disgusting, it really is. Coppers’ cows sitting on all that money.’

‘Who took over from Salvatore?’ Duffy thought it was time to be specific.

Renée looked quite nostalgic.

‘Dear old Emilio. I had him, you know. Only once or twice, but I had him. He had a funny habit. After he’d finished, he’d get dressed, wouldn’t say a word, put on his hat, went to the door, raised his hat, and went off. Not a word, and no money. I mean, the first time it happened I told him the price before, and when he didn’t put it straight in the dish I assumed he’d give it me later. But he didn’t. Just walked off. Then a couple of days later your money arrives in the post. Always happened that way. I suppose he liked to think he was the big boss getting everything for free at the time. But he never didn’t pay.’

‘And when he died?’

‘I think he had a nephew or something, but he wasn’t up to much and got chased out. The Chinkies took a bit, took the smokes and whatnot. The restaurants and things went to Big Eddy, I’m fairly sure of that. The whores went to a black guy, name of O’Reilly.’

‘Who runs smokes and the rest?’

‘Chinkies. Old Max a bit, but not very seriously. Mad Keith. Finlay.’

‘Whores?’

‘Big Eddy. O’Reilly. Mad Keith. There’s a batch of bents – pardon – run by Fat Eric. Remember him?’

‘The one who used to boast about how hairy he was – “From the tip of my nose to the tip of my dick” – that Eric?’

‘Yes. And Henderson. He’s quite big in tarts at the moment.’

‘What about the bookshops and the clubs?’

‘Same as the whores, mainly. Mad Keith owns the Peep Shows. And I think there’s a new bloke called Johnny Grease who’s got a few.’

‘Protection?’

‘Well, bit of everyone, as you know. Depends who’s biggest in any particular area, doesn’t it?’

‘Who’s big round Rupert Street?’

‘Which end? South or north of the Avenue? It makes a difference.’

‘South.’

‘Ah, pity. North, I’d definitely have said Big Eddy. But south, well, it’s a fairly quiet patch, usually. Maybe O’Reilly. He’s the black guy.’

‘Hmm. What about the coppers?’

Renée looked at him sharply.

‘You sure you’re not with them?’

‘Cross my heart.’

‘You’re not one of them clean-up coppers are you? A copper for coppers?’

‘I wish I was.’

‘Say me no.’

‘No.’

‘Good. Now tell me how much you’re paying me for what I’m telling you.’

‘Twenty-five…?’

Renée laughed.

‘Ha, Duffy, it’s all coming back to me now. You never were any good at that sort of haggling, were you? Now, let me remember. You’re offering twenty-five. That means you’ve got fifty to spend, so I’ll ask for seventy-five and then in a few minutes we’ll fix on sixty and you’ll be wondering if you’ll have to find the extra ten out of your own pocket.’

Duffy grinned.

‘Sixty it is, and probably ten from me. What about the coppers?’

‘Problems with the coppers. They’re in a very jumpy mood at the moment. Ronnie and me were talking about it the other day. They’re being very unpredictable. Some of the time they let everything go, you’d almost think they weren’t there. And then again they might jump on you with everything because one of your seams isn’t straight. It’s almost as if they don’t know who’s running them themselves.’

‘Anyone particularly bent at the moment?’

‘Hard to say. One or two of the younger ones go visiting a tart or two, but that’s standard. From what I know, it’s no worse than usual. It’s just that, well, the coppers are giving off a very nasty smell at the moment.’

‘Anyone in particular? Stanton? Wetherby? Sullivan? Shaw?’

‘Stanton’s left. Didn’t you know?’

‘No. The others?’

‘Nothing I can lay my finger on. Maybe they’re just a bit jumpy about things. Something’s going on somewhere, I’m sure.’

‘Do you know who’s moving, Renée? Who’s on the grab? Who’s upsetting all your stability?’

‘You know what happens to tarts that talk?’

Duffy nodded. He’d had to identify a couple of them in his time – on the slab.

‘I’m not gabby, you see. I’m just a tart that speaks her mind, everyone knows that. But I’m not a tart that squeals to coppers. Never have been.’ It wasn’t true, but she had her own picture of herself to protect.

‘I understand, Renée, and I’m not a copper. I’m not in the force. I’ve never been near West Central for four years. I’m just an old friend come to call.’

Renée looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and continued.

‘Well, it’s got to be Big Eddy. And it’s not because he tried to put the squeeze on Ronnie the other day. Rang up about how the books in one of Ronnie’s shops might go up if someone threw a firelighter through the door. But he’s on the move, no doubt about that. It’s bad news when someone gets as hungry as Big Eddy.’

‘Big Eddy who?’

‘Martoff. Big Eddy Martoff. His dad was one of the Malties that got rounded up. Married a nice tart, the dad did. Sad thing was, he died in pris. Eddy was a teenager at the time. Very cut up, from what I hear.’

‘What happened to the old man’s patch?’

‘It got split up. His widow moved away, and we all thought that was the last of the big Malties. Then, about five years ago, Eddy turned up. He’d bought himself a slice of the north end. He was quiet at first, and, you know, just seemed to concentrate on buying out some of the old men. A bit of presh, but not much. Some of it was completely legit, I expect. It was funny having a Malty back – though I suppose he’s only half Malty. His mum was pure East End, as far as I remember.’

‘Ever seen him?’

‘No. You hear much more than you see around here.’

‘And what do you hear?’

‘Well, first we heard he was a quiet kid. Big and strong but quiet. Then we heard that he was a bit of a joker. Keen on taking pictures. I heard once, a few years ago, he had a false mirror put in one of his tart’s flats – she didn’t know anything about it. Eddy would let himself in, and while she was earning, he’d take a reel of Polaroids of the punter on the job. Then he’d slip out into the street and when the punter came down the steps he’d stop him and offer him some snaps. The punter usually bought them, as you can imagine. Only trouble was, it didn’t do the tart’s trade any good.’

‘What else do they say?’

‘Well, they say he’s very grabby. They also say he plans a long way ahead.’

‘Has he done any time?’

‘Wouldn’t know.’

‘Got any particular coppers house-trained?’

‘Wouldn’t know.’

‘And what makes you think he’s on the move?’

‘It’s just what you hear. Sometimes you hear wrong. But I don’t think so this time.’

‘Maybe that’s why the coppers are jumpy – they think something’s going to break.’

‘Maybe. That usually makes coppers excited, though, doesn’t it? Nothing coppers like better than villains carving each other up, is there? But the coppers don’t seem that sort of excited at the moment. They’re just smelling bad.’

‘Anything happened so far?’

‘Well, bits you can’t connect. The thing with Ronnie.’

‘How did Ronnie know who it was?’

‘Process of elimination. Couldn’t have been anyone else. Then there’ve been one or two bits of nasty lately. A tart got cut up a bit.’

‘Sorry,’ said Duffy automatically.

‘No, no one I knew, but it makes you edgy. And a club got burnt out – you know, accident, the usual thing. Just happened Big Eddy was interested in the property. Just happened he bought what was left of the building for a little nothing. You see, it’s all a bit like that; but you know that if you’ve heard one or two little things, then you can be bloody sure that other people have heard others, and that they’re likely to add up to a move.’

‘Who works for Eddy?’

‘Lots of people.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘There’s Georgiou – remember him? Nick Georgiou?’

‘No.’

‘Fat guy – ginger hair, glasses, a bit crazy; everyone says don’t cross Georgiou. He’s a bit sick, they say; likes to make you think he’s friendly, then you’ve got a billiard cue across the kneecaps before you know where you are.’

‘Who else? Who does Eddy’s dirty?’

‘Well, Georgiou likes doing some. Puts in for it. Then there’s Kyle. Thin guy, full of mouth. About six feet or so. Very bad teeth. Talks out of the side of his mouth. Very gabby.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘One or two. Paddick – he’s a sort of tough, blond guy. They say he’s bent, but everyone’s bent nowadays I reckon. Pardon, love. Oh, and Hogan – little Irish guy. Nasty fellow. Grew up throwing paraffin heaters at old ladies.’

‘Charming. Where does Eddy hang out?’

‘People like that don’t hang out, Duffy, you know that. You don’t stand around in billiard halls waiting for the Eddies of this world to turn up. He doesn’t sit in bars and wait for his runners to deliver. The bars go to him. People like him don’t hang out, Duffy, they don’t hang out.’

Duffy smiled.

‘Well, it’s been a good twenty-five quid’s worth, Renée.’

‘Sixty, love, or I’ll be after you with a parry heater.’

‘Thanks, Renée, you’ve been very useful. And to think, I haven’t even been here.’

‘O.K., Duffy. Just make sure you leave like a punter.’

He left the flat as if in a flurry of guilt, and walked down the alley trying to look like a man who had been tied to a bed for an hour while three tarts in school uniform poured golden syrup all over him and then licked it off. He kept his chin tucked into his neck and didn’t look round. If anybody had seen him leaving Renée’s flat, he wouldn’t have known.

At home that evening, he brought all his artistry and ingenuity to bear on Carol’s Cheddar on toast.

‘Not bad, Duffy, you’re really coming along with your cooking. I don’t think I could have bettered this Cheddar.’

Duffy looked pleased. He’d decided to learn to cook after he’d stopped being able to eat cheap copper grub; after he’d got impotent with Carol; after she’d suggested they might still get married and he’d turned away and said ‘No’. But cooking didn’t come easily to Duffy. Carol kept telling him he ought to develop the right instincts – ‘How do you develop instincts?’ he asked, puzzled – and his approach was methodical and painstaking. He reweighed flour time and time again to get exactly the specified amount; he scrubbed vegetables as if they had to be clean enough to take part in a moon shot; he regarded every egg and every tin of luncheon meat as if they were explosive devices which had to be defused with the tenderest care.

‘It’s the mess I don’t like,’ he had said.

‘There isn’t any mess,’ Carol had answered, looking around.

‘That’s because I made sure there wasn’t.’

Duffy devoted as much time to getting rid of wrappers and packaging the leftover food as he did to cooking. If you opened his refrigerator door, you wouldn’t see anything to eat: you’d see shelvesful of opaque Tupperware boxes; polythene bags with neurotically doubled knots in their necks; even, occasionally, Tupperware boxes
inside
polythene bags. The first time Carol took a look, she called out,

‘Hey, Duffy, is the food trying to escape or something?’ and ever afterwards referred to his fridge as Colditz.

When they had finished supper Duffy washed up at once, in case any germs escaped from the decomposing food and started tunnelling their way into Colditz. Over coffee he asked casually,

‘What’s going on down at the patch, Carol?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know, what’s it like down the station? They jumpy or anything? Anyone getting ready for a move in the patch or anything?’

‘Duffy,’ she said sternly, ‘you don’t want to know about that. You’re not a copper any more.’ Her dark eyes looked at him severely from out of her pretty Irish face.

‘I’m interested.’

‘Duffy, it’s four years. You haven’t asked me in four years. We agreed you shouldn’t ask. We agreed it wouldn’t be good for you.’

‘What’s going on, Carol?’

‘No.’

‘I need to know now.’

‘No unless you tell me why. And even then probably no.’

‘If I tell you some things it might make it harder for you at work.’

‘If it looks like getting that way I’ll stop you.’

Duffy told her everything he’d learned since that first phone call of McKechnie’s which had got him leaping out of bed away from her. He told her the lines along which he was guessing, told her his flickering doubts about McKechnie, told her everything he’d been told by Renée. He didn’t disguise the fact that he was as much fired by his interest in Sullivan as he was by earning his money helping McKechnie. At the end, Carol said,

‘I don’t think I should, Duffy, I don’t think I should.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve lost a lot because of you, Duffy. I’ve lost four years of maybe being happy.’

‘That wasn’t because of me, that was because of whoever fitted me up.’

‘Same four years, Duffy, same four years. And the black kid may have been a plant, but’ – she looked at him reproachfully, for the first time in years – ‘you chose him, didn’t you?’

‘But that was all part of our deal.’

‘Well, there’s deals you hope will go one way, and deals you hope will go another, aren’t there?’ Carol sounded almost bitter; she had every right to. She didn’t look at him as she continued. ‘So now what you’re asking me to do is spy on the people I work with, all so that you can earn twenty quid a day from someone who for all you know is a crook.
And
so that you can get your revenge on Sullivan or whoever it was at the station who helped fit you up. Revenge isn’t a good idea, Duffy.’

‘They say revenge gets better the longer you leave it.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Carol fiercely. ‘Revenge screws you up. You’ve got to go on living if you don’t want to be screwed up. And
I’ve
got to go on living,’ she said with sudden emphasis. ‘I haven’t had all that much fun for the last four years. There’ve been some good bits, but I’ve mainly just been ticking over. And why I keep ticking over is because of my work. I like my work, Duffy, you must remember that, even if we don’t talk about it. I may not be keen on everyone at West Central, and I may even have my private sus about some of them, but I’m going to go on working there, Duffy. You screwed up some of my life four years ago, but you’re not having another bite at what’s left of the cherry.’