Authors: Danny Miller
‘Would be to kill the golden goose?’
‘Pure gold, Treadwell. Twenty-four carat!’ Billy Hill laughed again, followed by an excavating clear-out of his throat, then he said: ‘Got anything to drink?’
Vince was woken up by the bell. He scrambled into a pair of strides and a T-shirt and padded barefoot into the hallway. On his way to answer the front door, he looked into the living room and saw, on the coffee table, three drained glasses and a decimated bottle of Napoleon brandy. The remnants of a night spent with Billy Hill and his boys. He also had a fleeting recce of the mullered painting, now resting lamely against the wall instead of displayed on it boldly. Vince gauged the damage to be repairable, but he shuddered at the further expense involved.
Whoever was at the door wasn’t going away, but was thumbing the bell with a determined urgency. Vince didn’t know what time it was, but it felt industriously early. So he opened the door, expecting to find someone in uniformed service such as the laundry delivery, his postman wanting him to sign for something, or the milkman wanting him to settle up. Instead he got Isabel Saxmore-Blaine. She didn’t look as if she’d just tumbled out of bed either. She looked primed and ready, sleekly dressed and as shiny as the polished buttons on her navy reefer-style coat. He didn’t know how he felt about her standing there. Even amongst all the pain he’d been put through recently, he could still keenly feel the sting of that slap on his cheek. He invited her in with a mock grandiose sweep of his right hand, and she silently accepted with a pleasing smile across her painted red lips.
She took Billy Hill’s vacated seat in the living room, and Vince perked them some coffee. Then they sat in silence, savouring the strong brew. She broke the silence and commented that the coffee tasted good, the best she’d ever had, in fact. He told her why: it was Jamaican Blue Mountain, the best you could get. And he needed it. He hadn’t hit the hay until about 5 a.m. The clock in the kitchen had since told him it was 8 a.m. Three hours’ kip was not nearly enough after all the schlepping he’d done around dirty old London Town; and all the talking and listening and garnering that he’d done while sitting with Mr Hill.
Isabel glanced down at the almost-drained bottle of booze on the table, with the three empty glasses to which she gave a special scrutiny. To Vince it looked as if she was searching for lipstick traces on them. A vanity on his part, perhaps, but to the naked eye there was very little else to view on them. She then turned round to look at the busted painting, and said, ‘Looks like quite a party you had last night.’
‘Just the four of us – more of a soirée, I’d say. What can I do for you, Miss Saxmore-Blaine?’
‘I’ve come to apologize for my behaviour the last time I saw you.’
He yawned (completely involuntarily) and gave a purposeful nod.
Undaunted, she continued, ‘I was in a bad space, not just physically but emotionally. I was operating on anger not reason. And you were an available target.’
Maybe it was because he wasn’t fully awake, but these words sounded strange to him, like an overly constructed babble, the sort of words you pay a shrink reassuringly large amounts of money to spew at you. He suppressed another yawn. But he did manage another nod. It was a thoughtful nod, like Freud listening to a patient sprawled on his couch.
‘And I want to make it clear to you that, yes, of course I want Johnny’s killer found. And, yes, if Dominic is innocent, of course he must be proven to be so.’
‘Why the change of heart?’ he asked, adding quickly, ‘Not that it’s not welcome.’
‘I suppose I was retreating into the past, knowing how all this would affect my father. I knew how he would . . . how he would view it. I thought it was only right that I stand by him and by his wishes.’
‘Just like you’ve always done?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I can understand the change of heart, as it’s not a very tenable position any more.’
‘Don’t be brutal, Vincent. I’m being as honest as I can.’
‘I’m not being brutal, just frank. Because the longer this goes on, the harder it will be to find the killer. But I do appreciate your honesty. Brutal honesty, that’s what’s called for, agreed?’
‘Agreed. And I’m also sorry for the way I treated you. You gave me shelter that night, and I didn’t even thank you.’
Vince yawned again, lavishly this time. But this one was forced, and it was forced to disguise the tawdry smirk that he was pretty sure was crawling scurrilously across his face; because there was a good gag in there somewhere, but he wasn’t about to drag it to the surface and wag it about.
Isabel sat on the edge of the armchair, her back as straight and as upright as a bookcase. Averting her gaze from him, her poised head was tilted towards her hands resting together on her lap. But, coy as she looked, Vince sensed that she wanted her last statement batted back. At last she wanted some recognition for what had passed between them.
He obliged. ‘As it turned out, not a wholly altruistic act on my part. And I’m also sorry for my comments, the last time we met.’
‘Yes, and I apologize for slapping you.’ A smile gently tugged at her lips. ‘I’m glad you weren’t unduly troubled by it.’
Vince smiled back; he liked this game. ‘It was a strange night, Miss Saxmore-Blaine, but a highly enjoyable one.’
‘Call me Isabel. I think you’ve earned the right, don’t you?’
All pretence was now gone. What had been denied until now played itself back to them, and set free uncontainable smiles at the thought of that uncontrollable act. Deep down, Vince knew that Isabel wasn’t made up of that stultifying, life-denying reserve that puts a thick layer of frost over everything it touches. It was the first time he’d seen her really smile. A magnificent and heroic effort had been put into a couple of earlier efforts, but tragedy had weighed her down as inevitably as gravity. For the first time, he saw the warmth and innocence in her face, the potential for joy. But the admittance and the smile meant more than just the freeing of emotion; it was the turning away from stale ideals, from an inherent sepsis of thought that would have allowed Beresford’s killer to go free, and her brother to be found posthumously guilty of a murder he had not committed. The carapace of her class had now been thrown off, along with its burdensome expectations and stagnant immobility. So there they sat, grinning at each other like a couple of Cheshire cats on a hot tin roof.
Isabel returned to the bedroom holding two mugs of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. Vince watched her attentively; there was a lot to watch. She was naked and, among her many attributes, his eye was instantly drawn to her vagina. It was so well groomed that it really did deserve to be on show, a travesty to cover it up. She wore her pubic hair trimmed short, shorter than most he’d seen. It gave the perfectly formed V a shiny, velvety appearance, and you could clearly see the deliciously pouty lips that were now swollen and moist, like an inviting mouth that you just wanted to kiss. Vince now fully understood why women didn’t like bushy beards on men, and, in that moment, he vowed never to grow one.
It had been different this time. They were both fully awake, for a start. But semi-conscious though she was at the time of their last liaison, Isabel was well aware of how it had played out, and she was also well aware of her emasculating tendencies in the bedroom. She liked to take control of the proceedings, and had clearly left more than a few cocksure sack artists sprawled, spent and shamefaced on the sheets as she had her wicked way with them. So she happily yielded to Vince, and let him take the lead this time.
Isabel handed him his coffee mug, got under the sheets, and said, ‘So, tell me, what did Billy Hill want with you?’
‘He didn’t want anything. I wanted him.’
Isabel looked wide-eyed in astonishment at this revelation, as if Vince had summoned up the Prince of Darkness himself. ‘Why would you ever want him in your home?’
‘Because Beresford was a friend of Billy Hill’s.’
After the initial shock of this revelation, she then nodded in meditative accord, as if it all made perfect sense to her. ‘I knew Johnny liked to play with fire, and he mixed with some very questionable characters, so I suppose seeking out the company of a real-life gangster would be considered quite a coup. I assume he’s also a killer, not that I know anything about him. Only what I’ve read in the papers. So is he a killer?’
Vince shrugged. ‘If he is, thus far he’s got away with it. But someone will always be around to do what Billy does. And if anyone has to do it – which they do – I’d rather it was him. But, officially, he’s supposed to be retired.’
‘Unofficially?’
‘He offered me a job.’
‘Doing what, beating people up?’
‘Why do you say that? I have other attributes.’
‘What other attributes do you need, to be a gangster? I thought it was just bullying on a grand scale. Did you accept the job?’
‘What kind of a girl do you think I am?’
‘The kind that would probably make just as good a gangster as he would detective. Binary opposite attraction, and all that.’
‘You forget that, pending an inquiry, I’m no longer a detective, so might well be in the market for a job.’
‘My father knows your Commissioner.’
‘So I heard. Could he put in a good word?’
‘He advised my father that I should keep well away from you.’
‘I never knew the Commissioner cared.’
Isabel took a sip of her coffee, and made an ‘Ahh’ sound that could have indicated she was enjoying it or she was getting bored with Vince’s cool indifference to his career as a cop. She then placed her mug on the side table and said, ‘I’m being serious, Vincent. Don’t you care?’
Sensing her annoyance, Vince unlaced his hands from behind his head, and turned over on his side to face her. ‘The disciplinary hearing is out of my hands. There’s not a lot I can do about it, apart from turn up and tell the truth, so I don’t see the point in getting worked up about it.’
‘You have a record of violence, true?’
‘What else did he say?’
‘That you’re intelligent, resourceful and just what the Met needs. But you’ve also been disciplined for being reckless and going into situations you shouldn’t.’
‘Wow, you memorized my record?’
‘No, but I was paying attention when my father told me. Do you deny it?’
‘Not the first bit.’
‘You told me that you liked kicking down doors, remember?’
‘I was joking. There’s a lot more to this detecting malarkey than just kicking down doors. First of all I have to find the right door before I kick it down. And I object to being described as violent.’
‘You may object, but is it true?’
‘No, your honour, it isn’t,’ he replied, sitting up and leaning over to the bedside table to retrieve his cooling coffee for a voluminous swig. ‘I won’t deny that the job can get a little rough around the edges at times, but to say I’m violent suggests I go around doling it out unnecessarily. I don’t. I just give as good as I get.’ He put his mug of coffee back on the bedside table, and drew in closer to Isabel, his hand reaching under the sheets and cupping her breast. She looked down archly at this impertinent gesture, and raised one eyebrow like a question mark. He gave her nipple a circular rub with his thumb until it was fully extended and chafing with ticklish friction. She expelled a high-pitched yelp, and her face creased with laughter until it got too much for her and she rolled away from him.
‘You see, you really would make a good gangster. You’re an awful bully, Treadwell!’
‘I’m the number one nipple-tweaker in the London underworld.’
She stopped laughing, demanded that he be serious, and said, ‘Did Billy Hill kill Johnny?’
‘He says not.’
‘But he would say that, wouldn’t he?’
‘He would, but it’s up to me whether I believe him.’
‘And do you?’
‘Yes. Knocking off someone of his social standing would bring down a lot of aggravation. And anyway, he was making too much money with Beresford in a card-cheating scam they were running.’ On releasing that little nugget, Vince searched her face for more evidence of shock. There wasn’t any, but there was a wry little smile. ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ he added.
‘I’m not,’ said Isabel, ‘because it makes perfect sense. With Johnny and Asprey, gambling was never just about having fun, sportsmanship or even winning. It was more than that. For them to win, others had to lose. And that’s the part they really liked – beating other people. Johnny couched it in militaristic terms, said it was about the victors and the vanquished. Rather predictably, Asprey used evolutionary and zoology analogies to put that point across: survival of the fittest, primary species dominating – it was all about the same thing.’
‘Still, it’s quite a risk if you get caught. And it’s not as if they had nothing to lose, themselves.’
‘It’s the gambler’s mindset. They thrive on risk. Believe me, if they had all the money in the world, they’d still try and work out ways to bilk a few people they secretly despised. It feeds their sense of superiority and entitlement. What else did Billy Hill say about it?’
‘Not a lot. No details about how the scam worked – who it was done to, or who else was in on it. And no mention of James Asprey or the Montcler club.’
‘You didn’t ask him?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose not, with two men holding guns on you.’
‘Nothing to do with that. I didn’t ask because I knew he wouldn’t tell me. Billy Hill’s not in the business of helping coppers solve crimes. He just wanted me off his back, and himself out of the frame. Beresford’s dead, so nothing more can happen to him, and his reputation may now be as shot to pieces as he is, so nothing to lose there. But if others were involved in the same scam, Billy’s not about to implicate them. And there’s no evidence, either way.’
‘So this is what Johnny’s death comes down to – cheating at cards?’
Vince didn’t answer. Vince didn’t know.
The rest of the day passed gently and pleasantly enough. Isabel said she owed him lunch, after the meagre meal Vince had sprung for after her night in Jezebel’s. They ate at a new restaurant in Chelsea that was pulling in the in-crowds. It featured pornographic chess sets. Bashing the Bishop was taken literally. All the pawns were porns, featuring every position available – or certainly sixteen of the best. The King and the Queen were hard at it, and not just with each other. There were rutting rooks, and the Knight’s sword was fully drawn.