Duffy (21 page)

‘I don’t like that word “risk”. Never use it myself. Well, the sentence, let me get my transcript, the sentence read, “I’m not having some
GAP GAP GAP
coming on to my patch and telling me how to run my shop.” That was before I filled it in.’

‘Yes, Geoff, and after you filled it in?’

‘Ah, let me get my other transcript…“I’m not having some grubby ex-fiddler from up north coming on to my patch and telling me how to run my shop.” I had a bit of difficulty getting “grubby” out of the tape, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.’

‘No doubt about the rest?’

‘None at all.’

‘Thanks very much, Geoff.’

‘What shall I do with the tape?’

‘Could you possibly deliver it with the transcripts to an address I’ll give you? Today.’

‘Well…’ Geoff sounded doubtful.

‘I can’t tell you why, I’m afraid.’ That clinched it.

‘Of course.’

The third phone call came late in the afternoon, when Duffy was already rooting in his work cupboard for supplies. As he picked the phone up, he carried on checking the set of screwdrivers, the plastic-handled pliers, and the cutting knives he might need. He heard the pips panicking, then Carol’s voice came on. Like last time, she didn’t identify herself.

‘I’m not going to repeat it. Born Brian Kelly, 1929, Newcastle. ’49 London, ’52 back north, Leeds, Manchester, Newcastle, ’73 London. ’51 receiving London. ’53 receiving Leeds. ’54 receiving Leeds. ’61 indecent material through the post Manchester. ’65 Obscene Publications Act Manchester. ’70 receiving Newcastle. Probation, six months, six months, fine, three months, one year. Released ’71, clean since, and don’t ask me ever to do this again Duffy are you all right?’

‘I’ve got to see you tonight, Carol.’

‘Sorry, Duffy, I’ve got a date.’

‘No, I mean got to, Carol. Got to. Please cancel it.’

There was a silence.

‘I’ve never asked you to cancel before. It’s always been part of the agreement, that I’d never ask you to cancel. I’m asking now. I’m serious, Carol.’

‘O.K.’

‘Your place, please. I’ll be late. Probably very late.’

‘I don’t want to hear why, Duffy. Just don’t tell me why.’

‘I won’t. And thanks.’

Carol hung up. Duffy went on with his quiet, methodical preparations. He laid everything he might possibly need out on the table, and then selected in order of probability of need. There was no point setting off festooned with equipment like a fucking Sherpa. He might as well carry a large sack over his shoulder labelled Swag.

He wondered about the best time. Everyone said two in the morning was the best time. Duffy thought it was a rubbish time. Two in the morning is when sounds travel for ever, when a sticky window makes a soft squeak and three Panda cars hear it from miles away. Two o’clock is when insomniacs look out of their windows and long for an excuse to phone the police, just to talk to somebody, anybody. ‘Oh, officer, there’s a rather suspicious cat on the roof next door. It’s got four legs, a ginger coat and is carrying a jemmy.’ Two o’clock is when the burglars who get caught go burgling.

Duffy settled for ten thirty. Lots of punters still on the streets, the pubs still going strong, lots of stray noises drifting about. The tarts getting into double figures for the day.

He wore an anorak with pockets all over it, jeans and soft-soled shoes. He went in by tube as usual to Piccadilly Circus, strolled slowly along the Avenue and put on his punter’s walk as he turned up a side street. He worked his way across to Greek Street, crossed to the east side of the street to avoid walking past the front window of the Aladdin’s Lamp, crossed back, and went into the Duke of Hamilton. He bought a half of lager and went out into the tiny garden at the back. It was a cool night, and the only people there were a couple sitting at a table holding hands. They didn’t pay any attention as Duffy walked to the farthest table and sat down. They didn’t pay any attention as Duffy sipped his drink slowly and watched them out of the corner of his eye. When the barman called Time and they dragged themselves out of each other’s eyes, they didn’t even notice that there was no one else in the garden with them.

As he sat in the shadows of the courtyard behind the Double Blue he realised that he had miscalculated. There were no lights at all in the upstairs windows; but downstairs the cinema was still going strong. Easing their way out of a back window and floating towards him came the noises of amplified pleasure: the sounds of wailing sheep, and of bats being bludgeoned to death.

At eleven the noises stopped. At eleven ten the lights were turned out. At eleven thirty Duffy thought it was time to move. He pulled on a pair of very thin, transparent rubber gloves, got up out of the shadows and walked quickly to the cinema’s emergency exit. He listened for a moment with his ear to the door, found himself uttering not exactly a prayer but a profound wish, and pushed gently on the right-hand door. It opened an inch, two inches, then the retaining chain was pulled taut. Duffy paused, fished in a pocket, took out a pencil-thin piece of metal about three inches long, and tugged on the end. Three sections telescoped outwards, until he had an instrument about a foot long. He poked this through the gap in the doors, pulled the right-hand door almost shut on the metal rod, and moved it slowly upwards until it touched the chain.

By closing the door Duffy had relaxed the chain as much as it was possible. He pressed upwards on the chain, his eye squashed against the eighth-of-an-inch gap between the doors. Nothing happened. He pressed again, then started jiggling the chain up and down with his rod. Suddenly the cut link freed itself, and the two ends of the chain swung down, the one on the left striking the metal door with a clang.

Duffy listened, then pushed very gently on the door. He squinted through again. The padlock was clearly attached to the right-hand bit of chain, the bit he couldn’t see; but its weight meant that as he pushed, the section of the chain that was gradually freeing itself, clinking slightly as each link ran over the rail of the push-bar, was the part he could see, the left-hand end. What he wanted to avoid was the whole end of the chain swinging free and falling away to hit the other door. Duffy pushed until the door was about six inches open, then decided on another course of action. He pushed his rod through one of the links of the left-hand chain, and simply began to lift. This freed the chain and at the same time eliminated the danger of part or all of it falling loose.

When the chain came free of the push-bar on the left-hand door, Duffy pressed on the door until it was wide enough open to let him through, then slipped inside. Quietly he replaced the chain as it had been before, fitting the cut link back into place. Then, being doubly – maybe unnecessarily – careful, he slipped the bolts on the open door back into their slots.

After the lager and the nervous wait until the Double Blue closed, what Duffy needed most was a piss. He knew it would only be on his mind if he didn’t have one, so he walked down the corridor towards the cinema and found the toilet. He debated whether to leave the door open for more light, or close it for better sound-proofing. Eventually he pushed the door to, lit his tiny pen-torch and pissed carefully against the side of the bowl. Then he climbed up on to the bowl, fished in the cistern, and collected his heavy, snub-nosed metal-clippers. No point in leaving more evidence on the scene that you had to.

He dabbed the cutters dry on the thigh of his jeans and walked quietly up the stairs. He got to the landing and was about to open the middle of the three doors when he suddenly noticed a light coming from beneath the door of the room on the right. Then he heard a slight banging and shuffling noise, followed by a distinct cough. Fuck it. Damn. He wondered if someone was sleeping the night there. Or perhaps they were just locking away the takings from the Double Blue. All the doors opened into the rooms from the landing, which didn’t help Duffy. Eventually he decided to wait pressed against the wall by the side of the right-hand door. He waited there for five minutes or so, then heard footsteps approaching.

As Jeggo put his head out to look for the light switch on the landing, Duffy hit him as hard as he could on the side of the head with the metal-clippers. Even the shortest fights are noisy. Jeggo roared with pain, and Duffy hit him again nearer the temple with the cutters, grunting loudly with the effort as he did so. Jeggo fell to the floor about as quietly as an entire sack of coal being emptied down a metal chute into a coal cellar.

Duffy had knocked enough people unconscious to know that they didn’t necessarily stay that way for as long as you wanted them to. He took Jeggo by the back of the collar, and carefully avoiding the blood which was staining the right side of his face, dragged him through the middle door and along the carpeted passage. He flicked a light switch, climbed on a chair, and examined all the surrounds of the door-frame at the end of the passage. It was clean. He turned the handle and found it was locked.

First he squinted through the keyhole to find out whether there was a key left in the lock. There was. Then he extracted a little probe with a magnet on the end which snapped on to the snub end of the key and allowed him to manipulate it. The magnet wasn’t strong enough to unlock the door with the key; but strong enough to turn the key itself to a vertical position, so that he could push it gently backwards until it fell out on to the carpet on the other side. Duffy then took out his set of skeleton keys and had the door open in a minute.

He dragged Jeggo through into the green room and dumped him on the floor. He bled quietly on to the carpet. The curtains were closed, so Duffy turned on one of the lights, the brass standard lamp nearest to the side room. Then he pulled a chair over to the door and climbed up on it. With his pen-torch pressed close to the cream-painted box, he examined every edge of it, found some screws which had been crudely painted over, and with a short screwdriver chipped away at the hardened paint. Then he slowly undid the screws. As they loosened, he pressed against the cover of the box. The screws fell to the floor, and the lid was held in place simply by his hand. He laid his face close to the left-hand side of it and very slightly pulled the cover away on that side. Then he did the same on the right-hand side. He couldn’t get at the top, so he ran a thin blade between the top edge and the wall. Again, nothing. He couldn’t get at the bottom edge because it was tight against the top of the door-frame. This was the big one you simply had to risk. Duffy looked round to make sure he’d worked out the quickest way to the door in case there was a trigger on the bottom edge. Then he gently began to lift the cover away.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened except that, when Duffy looked at the alarm he nearly giggled. Then he did giggle. Jackson and Horwill had started making these in 1952, and for some reason had kept them in production until the mid-1960s. They weren’t bad – that’s to say, they went off reliably, they made a loud noise, they didn’t need servicing – it was just that, well, burglars practised on these when they were still at primary school. They were the sort of alarms which villains taught their wives how to defuse, just so they could get a feeling of what hubby’s job was like. There were hoary burglar’s stories which turned on getting to a job with the very latest equipment and finding yourself faced with a Jackson and Horwill ’52.

Two minutes and a few keys later, Duffy had opened the door to the side room. As he did so, he heard a sound from the floor. Jeggo was moving a bit, making a little noise. Duffy walked quickly across and kicked him on the side of the head that was nearest him – the side that didn’t have blood on it. If that fucked up the inside of Jeggo’s head, he thought, it could only be an improvement.

The room was very neatly arranged. On the far wall were the manila files, covering about three shelves. A to Z. He reached up to the top shelf and pulled out ‘Duffy’. In a pocket on the inside of the left-hand cover were the Polaroids from the night before last. He put the file on one side. Then he looked for one or two names in particular. Then, on an impulse, a sudden, slightly sick impulse, he looked for Carol. Thank God, she wasn’t there. He looked for Shaw. There was a very thin file, a photo or two, nothing much, a few notes, as if either they hadn’t tried to get anything on him, or else he was one dourly honest copper.

Duffy pulled out the rest of the files and tipped them on to the floor. Tightly packed papers burn poorly, so he scattered them loosely. Then he looked around the room and noticed two metal filing cabinets. Locked, but Duffy could open them blindfold. One was full of cassette tapes, again filed in alphabetical order. He went through them slowly. The other had a number of 8 mm. cine-films in it. He broke one open, went back into the green room, and held a strip up to the light. Then he piled the films and the tapes on top of the manila files.

He took his own file, opened it up and placed it flat on the carpet. He took out the Polaroids and built them into a house of cards. Then he took a box of matches and lit the edge of one of them. It caught, the edge burned, and then with a sudden flare the chemicals on the print surface lit. Soon all the prints were alight, and papers round the edge were beginning to catch as well. He watched unblinkingly while the Polaroids bubbled and flamed, and started giving off smoke and the smell of burning oil. He watched them curl and bend, and then the house of cards he had made collapsed. More papers caught, the fire was well alight; Duffy fed on some tapes and films, then some folders, and decided it was time to leave.

He propped open the door into the side room to help ventilate the fire. Then, as he left, dragging Jeggo with him, he propped open each door in turn. Already as he left the green room he could feel the heat of the fire. He dragged Jeggo bumping down the stairs, pulled the chain out of the emergency exit door, slipped the catches, and propped both the doors open. That should help the draught.

Still careful not to collect a dab of blood, he dragged Jeggo to the end of the courtyard and left him there. If he wanted to rush in and try to put out the fire when he came round, he was welcome to. Duffy hopped over a few fences until he came to an alley leading back out into Greek Street. There were still a few cruising taxis, looking for drunken foreign punters whom they could drive to hotels a mile away and charge them ten quid. They’re a greedy bunch, cabmen, that late at night, but Duffy didn’t care. When the first taxi didn’t stop, he simply waved a five-pound note at the driver of the second and told him to take him to Carol’s.