Chapter 19
Richard Quincey was reading in his office.
‘I need a word, sir.’
‘Come in, Yvonne.’ He took off his glasses. ‘What the hell happened at the church yesterday?’ He spoke quietly, but his voice carried an undercurrent of menace.
‘Arabella Carrington and her photographer barged in and wanted to take photographs.’
‘Why didn’t you leave the constable to deal with it? You realise the minister had to halt the service.’
She knew the policeman, a tired nervous man whose wife had recently left him. She’d seen him at the supermarket, struggling with a screaming toddler and a trolley full of shopping. ‘We dealt with it together, sir.’
Quincey regarded her from under bushy brows. ‘I understand you destroyed the camera’s memory card. Carrington has already lodged a complaint.’ He threw down the newspaper. ‘And there’s this.’
It was a copy of the day’s Daily Mail. The front page carried an account of the memorial service, which seemed to consist entirely of interviews with some of the congregation. Arabella must have lurked in the bushes and pounced. Von could see now that it had been an error of judgement not letting her have her way: instead of photographs, there was a cartoon showing the Chief Super as a sleeping bulldog, with herself and Steve as yapping terriers running round him in diminishing circles. The
resemblance to Steve was particularly striking. She knew Steve wouldn’t give it a second glance, nor did it bother her, but the Chief Super had always been sensitive to how he was portrayed in the media.
She passed the paper back. ‘Despicable, sir.’
‘So what are you here for? I’m assuming you’ve disturbed me to tell me you’ve made a breakthrough.’ His voice was laced with sarcasm. ‘I hope so. Your performance lately hasn’t exactly been blowing my skirt up.’
‘It’s about the state of your brother’s finances.’
‘I thought we’d been through all that,’ he said testily.
‘Your brother formed the Quincey Players as a private limited company. Did you know?’ When he said nothing, she added, ‘The company is currently worth half a million pounds. Your brother and Michael Gillanders were sole equal partners. Gillanders now owns it outright. We may have our prime suspect.’
If he was surprised, his face didn’t betray it. He continued to stare at her.
‘You knew none of this, sir?’ she said, puzzled by his silence.
‘I’ve told you before, Yvonne, I knew nothing about my brother’s affairs.’
‘I’m wondering why you didn’t become a partner yourself. It seems the natural thing to do, given that you provided the start-up costs.’
‘Must we go over old ground?’ he said impatiently. ‘I wanted my brother to run his own business.’
She chose her words carefully, not wanting to antagonise him. ‘Over the last fifteen years, your brother has been making cash deposits into his bank account. A few hundred at a time. It’s not yet clear where this money’s been coming from.’
She had his attention. ‘Are you suggesting I’ve been giving it to him?’ he said.
‘Not suggesting, sir,’ she said, smiling faintly, ‘just asking.’
‘I’ve given him no money, other than the start-up costs. We both know that statement can be verified.’ He busied himself in folding the newspaper. ‘So, how are you proceeding?’
‘We pulled Gillanders in for formal questioning. He denied killing your brother. We have no material evidence against him.’
He turned his pitiless gaze on her. ‘Then for Heaven’s sake, Chief Inspector, carry on and find it.’
He stopped her at the door. ‘I heard about that business with the doll. The one left outside your flat.’
‘It’s not putting me off my stride,’ she said quietly.
‘Stride?’ He snorted. ‘More like baby steps.’
Well, fuck you very much for asking, sir
.
It was 11.20am and he was late. As usual. But there was no point fretting. Tubby Wainwright kept his own time. Over the rim of her mug, Von cast an eye around the Euston Road caff, wondering what the customers would think if they knew she was a detective waiting for her snout.
There were three other people there: a middle-aged couple who sat a few tables away, the woman speaking in bored tones to the man, who kept his eyes glued to his newspaper, and the mousy-haired waitress. She’d left the counter and was clearing away the remains of the fat breakfasts, stacking the plates noisily. Although it was still morning, she moved with the same lethargy that Von remembered from her own summer jobs waiting tables. Von had eaten in this caff when she was training – it did the best mutton pie in London – but it had downsized considerably since. The décor was the same, though: the custard-yellow walls still sweated grease and the strip lights still flickered. The other things unchanged were the smell of chip fat, and the artery-clogging menu. And the tea was always scalding.
It wouldn’t have been her first choice of meeting place, but Tubby would have no other. And she was the one asking the favour.
She’d positioned herself so she could see the door. Ten minutes later, a short man with a shock of red hair and John Lennon glasses arrived.
He gave no indication he’d seen her, just sauntered to the counter, his red-and-gold cowboy boots clicking on the lino. He brought a mug to her table. Still not meeting her eye, he reached for the sugar bowl and all but emptied it into his tea.
She knew the routine. Tubby wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence until she did it. She rose and went to the counter. A minute later, she returned with a large plate piled high with cream cakes and set it down in front of him.
‘Hello, Chief Inspector,’ he murmured. ‘Long time, no see.’
He took a chocolate éclair from the pile and bit into it. Cream oozed from the sides and dripped onto the table. She watched him eat. He wouldn’t be hurried. And he was worth the wait.
He’d been her grass for longer than she could remember. He was one hundred percent dependable and, since the death of the wheel man for a London gang who’d turned Queen’s evidence (but not before he’d made a pile of money that would start a bank) she used no-one else.
She’d been a detective sergeant when she met him. It was her first collar. He’d been selling ladies’ watches on Oxford Street, watches which had disappeared the day before from a large department store. She’d bought one, then returned the following day when he was selling brassieres. She complained the watch wasn’t working and she’d have the law on him unless he got her a replacement. His watery blue eyes, huge behind the spectacles, stared helplessly at her. He’d get one if she came back later that day, he said. She waited in a nearby alley till he passed,
then shadowed him to the store, nodding at the house detective as she followed him in. Tubby was good – he knew how to work it so the theft was hidden from the cameras – and she found herself grudgingly admiring his expertise. As he stepped out onto the pavement, she arrested him. In the dock, he kept the jury in stitches, chronicling his exploits. When asked if he’d stolen the watches, he replied, I never stole them, My Lord, I just liberated them from captivity.
She was waiting for him on his release. She’d taken him to this caff. And she’d made him a deal. That was several years ago. He’d been in prison only once since, for robbing a bank. His undoing was that he knew the clerk. When he saw how terrified she was, he lifted his hood and whispered, ‘It’s all right, Ellie, it’s only me’.
Tubby had finished the cakes. He belched lightly, and loosened the bottom two buttons of the striped waistcoat he’d bought on the Portobello Road. A smile of contentment spread over his spotty face.
‘You’ve lost weight, Tubby,’ she said affectionately. ‘Spanish cuisine not agreeing with you?’
‘Too rich, by far. Though there are some fish and chip shops and Irish pubs now.’ He slurped his tea. ‘So, what’s your pleasure, Von?’
‘I’ve a job for you.’
He waved a soft white hand. ‘If it’s like the last one—’
‘This is nothing like that. I want you to do some fishing for me.’
‘That’s what you said last time.’
She lowered her voice. ‘Have you heard of the Iron Duke?’
‘Course I have. He won some war, didn’t he?’
‘I mean the pub.’
‘In that case, no.’
‘It’s in Soho.’ She pushed a piece of paper across. ‘Here’s the
address. I want you to have a good sniff around.’
He gazed at her, his eyes swimming behind the lenses. ‘What smell are you expecting to find?’
‘Do you remember the Jack in the Box murders?’
‘When was it?’
‘1985.’
‘I was on the Costa del Sol in the eighties. Enjoying the sun with me mates.’
‘You stayed straight that long?’ she said, blowing on her tea.
He shifted in the chair, lowering his eyes. ‘I did a few jobs, just to keep my hand in, like.’
‘Fleecing the Spaniards?’
He looked up, scandalised. ‘Von, I swear. I never touched the locals. People who do that give honest thieves a bad name. No, I only fleeced the tourists.’
‘I’m not interested.’ She leant forward. ‘But this job is important. I’m running a murder investigation and all roads lead to the Duke.’
‘Murder?’ His eyes narrowed.
She hesitated. Her sergeants had got nowhere showing their hand and she doubted she and Steve could succeed where they’d failed. Tubby was now her only hope. But, if he was to play the innocent successfully, the less he knew about Max Quincey the better.
‘I want you to find out what’s going on there,’ she said. ‘All I can tell you is there’s some kind of scam. I need to know what it is, and who’s controlling it. It may be long running, going back at least fifteen years.’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘Drugs?’
She didn’t recall mention of drugs in Harrower’s file, but the area was notorious for it. ‘It may be something bigger.’
‘Bigger? How much bigger?’
‘No idea. I’ve nothing to go on.’
He scratched between his legs. ‘When do you need this by?’
‘Yesterday. But I’m prepared to wait if that’s what it takes.’
The silence lengthened.
‘So, do we have a deal?’ she said. ‘Okay, I’ll take that lame grin as a yes. Now, let me get you more tea.’
She returned from the counter and placed the mug in front of him, drawing her head back to escape the smell of rancid fat from his hair.
‘Ta very much, Chief Inspector.’ He lifted the mug and, with a practised movement, withdrew the notes she’d left underneath. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Von and Steve were in her office, finishing the greasy specials from the station’s canteen.
‘The Duke seems to be the key to this whole thing,’ she said, wiping coleslaw off her fingers. ‘I let the genie out of the bottle when I sent the others in. It was a bad mistake, Steve.’
‘You think your snout will succeed where they failed?’ ‘
If anyone can do it, he can.’
Steve rubbed his neck. ‘I’ve never been able to get anywhere with snouts. The last one was a disaster. He wore his wire outside his clothes.’
‘Ever tried seasoned criminals? When I engaged mine, I didn’t realise how ahead of the curve I was.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘Talking of the Duke, there’s someone else who might shed light on what’s going on there.’
‘Charlo’s pimp, Jimmy Porteous?’
‘Larry said Porteous would sometimes go to the Duke with his boys. Maybe he still does. He’s the last living link to Manny and the others.’ She considered Steve’s half-eaten pork pie, lying in its wrapping. ‘You’re obviously not hungry. Let’s go.’
He stared at the pie. ‘Now?’
Von had always felt at home in the Borough. On her days off, she’d shop in Borough Market, combing the stalls looking for her brothers who often helped out their mates in return for the odd box of fruit or cut of meat. Like much of London’s East End, the Borough had been badly damaged during the Blitz. The terraced streets had vanished, as had the theatres and music halls. It was one of the oldest parts of London and, as with other areas earmarked for development, it was a mix of office blocks, expensive residential areas, and run-down council estates.
It was in one of these run-down estates that Jimmy Porteous lived, on the fifth floor of a high-rise block of flats.
Unwilling to leave the Toyota unattended, Von instructed Larry to stay at the wheel. She and Steve climbed the stairs carefully, stepping over refuse and trying not to brush against the walls. They reached the fifth floor, and paused to get their breath. The temperature had dropped, and the wind was stiffening, snatching up leaves and litter and hurling them into the air. She peered over the balcony, wondering how Larry would cope with the unwelcome attention he was attracting. He’d opened the car door and was talking to a group of teenagers, one of whom was showing more than usual interest in the Toyota’s paintwork.
‘I imagine this part of London’s a bit like Glasgow,’ she said.
Steve was a pro at this game. ‘Glasgow’s not nearly as up-market.’ They exchanged smiles.
She turned her attention to Porteous’s door. When there was no reply to her knock, she hammered with her fist.
‘Why not try the bell, boss?’
‘It’s broken.’
He examined the hinge. ‘So is the door.’ He put his shoulder against it and forced it open.
‘Jimmy Porteous?’ she shouted.
‘In here,’ came a voice from inside.
They stepped into the tiny hallway. Her first instinct was to cover her mouth and nose. ‘God, Steve, what a stink.’
‘Reminds me of home. That heady mix of damp plaster and stale cabbage.’
‘Where are you, Mr Porteous?’
‘In the kitchen. Through the lounge.’
‘He’s taking a risk, letting in strangers,’ Steve said, following her.
‘Look around you. What is there to steal?’
The lounge had once been a pleasant room, its centrepiece the gas fire with tiled surround, but it had been allowed to fall into decay. A thin film of dust covered the surfaces, the foam sofa had split across the back, and the striped orange curtains were faded and in tatters.
She stepped over the empty food cartons and Coke cans, trying to find a place for her feet. As she brushed against a box, something sleek and black ran across the room.