She Died Young (17 page)

chapter
21

I
T WAS THE BEGINNING
of a new week. Jarrell decided to pay one of his informers a visit. Sammy Parker resided in a grim Farringdon Road tenement located opposite the hostel for homeless men and near the postal sorting office. Jarrell mounted the stone stairs. They were roofed over, but open at the sides so that the wind blew along the third-floor access balcony, cutting through his thin raincoat like a knife.

Jarrell knocked on the door at the end.

‘Detective Sergeant Jarrell!’ Sammy Parker looked nervous, although he spoke with a pleasant smile.

‘Hello, Sammy, keeping well I hope. Got a moment? This a convenient time?’

Their relationship was still at the honeymoon stage. It dated from soon after Jarrell had returned to general detective work. Jarrell had caught Sammy Parker trying to burgle a watch-maker’s shop late one evening. He had soon guessed that his captive was a man who might prove useful and had decided to take an interest in his new acquaintance.

He now followed Sammy into a sitting room filled with the fug produced by cigarettes and a smoking coal fire. After the freezing fog outside, it was too hot. There was also a smell that cut the cigarette fumes with a whiff of old cabbage or worse, cats perhaps. A boxing flyer was propped on the mantelpiece.

Jarrell did not want to sit down on the vast, sagging settee. It was none too clean and covered with cat hair. So he stood with his back to the window and watched his host with a certain affectionate contempt. Sammy Parker was small, lithe and cheery and a bit too ingratiating. The weakness in his character, as Jarrell had quickly discovered, was that he didn’t like to displease or disappoint those with whom he came in contact. He didn’t know how to say no, whether to fellow thieves, women or the police. Since he moved in rather disreputable circles, this had got him into a lot of trouble.

‘Fancy a cup of tea? I’m having one meself.’

‘Thanks. I will.’

While Parker was in the kitchen, Jarrell took a look around, but found nothing to interest him. When the tea arrived he regretted accepting it, for his cup showed the remains of a lipstick stain and the orange brew was sickly with too much sterilised milk.

‘Michael Camenzuli,’ he said. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘You ain’t come across Maltese Mike before?’

‘I worked in the Branch until recently, remember?’

‘I heard he’s in trouble.’ Sammy didn’t seem too upset. ‘Nasty bit of work. A knife man.’

‘He’s put his hand up for a girl who fell down the stairs at his hotel and broke her neck.’

‘That so?’ Sammy put his head on one side in an enquiring fashion, but something about the informant’s expression caused Jarrell to believe he knew this already.

‘Why would he do that – if it wasn’t him who pushed her?’

Sammy’s laugh was a catarrhal wheeze. ‘You asking me, mate? How should I know?’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘Mind you, he’d do anything for money.’

‘Such as?’

‘He’s a fucking grass, that’s what he is.’ This came strangely from a man who was at this moment passing information to a police officer, but Parker appeared not to notice the inconsistency. ‘Yeah, do anything for money would Maltese Mike. Got a gambling habit, see. Sell his soul to a copper, he would. Or anyone else, the devil included. People think ’e was involved with the Messina gang, but ’e weren’t, not really. Hung about on the fringes, but ’is real ambition was to be a boxer. Bantam-weight. Was with Vince Mallory for a while. But that wasn’t going anywhere. He had too much of a temper and he couldn’t lose the knife habit. Knives and boxing don’t mix, that was Mallory’s view. Got done for carving someone up and Mallory didn’t like that. But they say he done Mallory a good turn of some kind or other and that’s how he’s ended up running that hotel.’

‘You mean Mallory owns the property?’

Sammy shrugged.

Jarrell nodded towards the leaflet on the mantelpiece. ‘You follow boxing yourself, I see. That’s one of Mallory’s fights, isn’t it? Camenzuli – Maltese Mike – he’s still doing favours for him?’

‘Dunno. Doubt it. Mind you, ’e’s in with a lot of people. No-one trusts him, but they all use him.’

‘He runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds, eh?’

‘You could put it like that.’

‘Any particular hound?’

Sammy ignored the question and instead asked one of his own. ‘What about this girl, then?’

‘Why would the Maltese confess to pushing her down the stairs?’

‘’Cos he done it? Like I said, ’e ’as a temper.’ Parker grinned. ‘Who was the girl, then?’

‘She’d worked at Mallory’s club.’

‘Well, there you go, then.’

‘You’re not telling me Mallory had anything to do with it. I don’t buy that. He’s a successful businessman.’

Parker laughed aloud at this naivety. ‘Wasn’t always quite so legit. Wasn’t like he is now. Don’t tell me you don’t know nothing about Vince Mallory. Seems he was in the army. In Germany at the end of the war. Involved in the black market out there, I reckon. Him even
being
in the army was a miracle, I’d have had him down as a deserter. Amazing he didn’t skive off out of that somehow or other.’

Jarrell, too, was astonished Mallory hadn’t managed to avoid conscription. However, he reflected that even the most crooked individuals sometimes accidentally found themselves going straight.

‘Got into the black market back here, they say. But then he got into boxing. When he was operating down the East End, he had problems. Enemies, rivals. He needed protection. Jack Spot come round, offered to help him out, but Mallory said no. Offices got smashed up. He still said no. Got roughed up himself – in spite of his bodyguard, I believe he had protection from Harry Evans at the time. Remember Evans? Good boxer, he was. Anyway, so eventually Mallory thought, if I’m going to get protection, I’ll get it from the top. And he got it from Detective Superintendent Gorch. Nobody could touch him after that.’

‘Gorch?’ That was a shock. Jarrell had respected Gorch. But he didn’t show his dismay, merely said in a neutral tone: ‘Is that so?’

Parker grinned some more. ‘You didn’t know?’ He eyed Jarrell, sensing discomfort. ‘Thought Gorch wore a halo, did you? Anyway, Mallory don’t get on so well with your current lot. Inspector Slater in particular.’

‘I’m aware of that.’ Jarrell frowned. ‘But why would Mallory want to get rid of this girl?’

‘I’m not saying he did.’

Now that Mallory had opened that glitzy club in Soho, the Ambassadors, he was a fashionable figure and almost respectable. He’d made strippers glamorous. He’d made sexiness smart. Jarrell filed these thoughts away for future study. In the meantime: ‘So all you’ve told me is, Camenzuli might do Mallory a favour. Or be leaned on to do him a favour.’

‘Say that again.’

‘But that doesn’t explain why this particular favour.’

‘True,’ agreed Parker obligingly. ‘It don’t.’

Jarrell let the silence settle. Then: ‘Anything else?’

‘Can’t help you about the girl, I’m afraid.’

‘Why doesn’t Mallory get on with Detective Inspector Slater?’

Sammy laughed. ‘You’re asking me that? Old enemies, ain’t they? Slater knows he’s a crook. Or used to be. They say he’s trying to get him on immoral earnings. Close the Ambassadors on some trumped-up charge of being a brothel. Running a disorderly house or something.’

Jarrell looked at his creature. He was holding something back. ‘I think you know more than you’re letting on.’

‘Strewth, nah, Inspector. I wouldn’t do that.’

‘It’s Sergeant, Parker. But I’ve another question. Know anything about a Doctor Swann? Died of an overdose the other day.’

Sammy looked thoughtful. ‘I had heard … poor old sod,’ he began cautiously. ‘Course, he worked for Mallory too at one time.’

‘I know. Funny how Mallory’s name keeps cropping up all over the place.’

‘It is, Sergeant Jarrell.’

‘Have a think about it. Anything you might hear in that direction. I’ll call again in a couple of days.’ He slid a note into Parker’s waiting hand as he left.

The pub where Slater and his crowd often drank was not far from Parker’s dismal buildings. Jarrell decided to look in and see if Slater was there. He walked through the back streets, wondering how much he’d learned that was useful. Not much – other than about Gorch. That was a shock, and an unwelcome one. But it was interesting that Mallory’s name kept coming up. He’d have to find out more about him – have to pay him a visit, perhaps – but now he found himself thinking about Slater rather than the boxing promoter. The change he’d noticed in the man was subtle, but these days the Inspector seemed driven, which he hadn’t been in the past. He hadn’t won further promotion. That might be the problem.

The Crown had the special tangible atmosphere of a bar patronised by the law. It was the same with the pub the Pentonville screws drank at in the Caledonian Road: an ambience secretive, edgy and bombastic all at once.

He withstood the usual jokes about his non-drinking. He good-humouredly accepted soda water and the ribaldry that came with it. He just wished pubs served coffee as cafés did in France – that had been a revelation on his first, recent, trip to Paris with his fiancée.

He leant against the bar and listened to his colleagues. There was a lot of animosity towards Moules, coupled with rose-tinted memories of the Gorch era. The former Superintendent’s name revived the discomfort he’d felt at what Parker had told him. He didn’t want to dwell on the new and unwelcome knowledge that Gorch might have been as crooked as the rest of them, so he decided to throw a little firework into the conversation and see what happened.

‘Anyone been to that strip club in Soho? The Ambassadors? Quite fancy a visit myself.’

There was a little silence. Slater, red in the face already – he must have been drinking for a while – slammed his empty jar on the counter, signalled for more. ‘What you bringing that up for, Jarrell? It’s none of your fucking business. We’re trying to get him on immoral earnings. So what?’ When Slater laughed he always sounded angry. ‘Where have you been, Professor? You’ve spent too long doing fuck all in the fucking Branch.’

So much for the illusion that these ex-members of the Flying Squad regarded him with cheery acceptance. He’d always recognised a vein of potential hostility beneath the bonhomie, but of late it had seemed surreptitiously to swell as Slater grew louder and chronically angrier.

‘There’s a lot I don’t know,’ said Jarrell quietly and hoped it would be enough. The tension relaxed. Slater shouted again for another round.

‘No – my round,’ said Jarrell. Then, having drunk up his soda water, he slipped away as quietly as he could and walked back in the direction of Argyle Street. As he strode along he pondered on Slater’s sudden rage. A decision formed in his mind. He must slide his way into Slater’s confidence. Through such an intimacy he would discover what was really going on. He must know more about Mallory.

chapter
22

J
ARRELL BELIEVED IN HIS
own ability. In his book, that wasn’t arrogance. He was just smarter than Slater and the others – including McGovern. He had no time for the bribery and graft that went on. He was 100 per cent behind Moules’ efforts to clean up the CID. McGovern was unaware how grateful his former Sergeant had been to be pushed into helping the Superintendent with his anti-corruption crusade. Sooner or later it would dawn on Jarrell’s colleagues that he was the one who was going places and they would begin to fear and hate him. But you had to be hated by someone to get anywhere in this job.

He was doubtful that the Argyle Street business would forward the anti-corruption cause, as it had revealed little evidence of police wrongdoing. Yet its curious connections intrigued him: Camenzuli’s link with Mallory, and Mallory’s with Slater.

Leaden drops of rain fell on his shoulders as he approached the Camenzuli hotel. By the time he reached it, the rain was sharp and hard.

He peered through the glass door. A ‘No Vacancies’ notice swung against it. The hall light was dim. He pushed the door, but it had been locked. His hand hovered over the bell, but he thought better of it. Instead he worked on the lock and soon he was inside.

It was unnaturally quiet for a hotel. Hotels were usually quiet places, but this one seemed as deserted as the
Marie Celeste
. The heating system sighed as if gently sleeping. The upper floors were in darkness. He doubted there were any guests at all. Maria Camenzuli was all alone in her basement. As he crept towards the back of the house he heard the wireless – music and voices. No doubt she needed that to keep her company, to stave off the loneliness and fear.

He crept down the basement stairs. The door into her sitting room was partly open. Now he moved noisily, pushed the door wide.

Maria Camenzuli screamed when she saw him standing in the doorway. She cringed back in her chair. Her knitting sank to the floor.

‘Did I frighten you?’ He smiled menacingly. ‘No need to be alarmed. You remember me, don’t you?’

She gasped for breath, pushing herself far back in her chair as if she was hoping to disappear through it. Her eyes were huge.

‘Mind if I sit down?’ Jarrell sat down on the chair that faced her without waiting for an answer. ‘I’m the detective who was here before. When we arrested you and your husband. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

Dumbly, she shook her head.

‘Your husband’s been charged. You must be worried. Worried sick, I’d say.’

She stared.

‘He’s made a confession. He says he pushed that girl down the stairs. Now I wonder what made him do that.’

Jarrell paused. He watched her. She was shaking, mesmerised by his presence. ‘You visited him, didn’t you. You passed on the message to say he should confess. It’d be worth his while in the end. They’d see you both right. That’s what happened, isn’t it? So who told you to pass that message on, Mrs Camenzuli?’

Her eyes were huge. She was too frightened to speak.

He raised his voice. ‘
Who told you?
’

She shook her head, or perhaps she was just shaking with fear. Her head jerked to and fro.

‘You will tell me, Maria.’

He stared at her. She
had
to tell him. But after a few seconds of silence he knew she wasn’t going to. She was more frightened of someone else than of him.

He waited. She stuck it out through the silence and eventually he decided to try a different line of attack. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but whoever approached you, or whatever the reason, the fact is, it didn’t happen like that, did it? Your husband didn’t push the girl down the stairs. So if you want to help him, you’d better tell me what really happened. You want to help him, don’t you?’

She still stared and it suddenly occurred to Jarrell that perhaps she was not that keen on helping her husband. It could be she preferred him inside; but now he had no choice but to press on. ‘I heard she was dead when she arrived. Is that right? So who brought her here?’

The woman was shaking her head again. She was beginning to annoy him. He leaned forward and spoke quietly, forcefully. ‘You’re saying she wasn’t dead? But she was dead, wasn’t she? Or did your husband kill her?’

She shook her head.

‘Tell me what happened, Maria.’

He watched his victim. Her hands moved as if she were washing them. Was that what they meant by ‘wringing your hands’? He’d never seen anyone do that before. ‘You must tell me, Maria. Or I might have to hurt you.’

‘No – please …’

‘Then tell me what happened.’

She looked at him beseechingly. Her jaw trembled. She started to cry. Finally she whispered: ‘Man brought her.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I not see him. My husband upstairs. I am down here. When I am went upstairs only the doctor.’

‘But your husband described to you what happened. And now the doctor is dead. Did you know that?’

Now her look was pure terror. She clasped her hands over her mouth.

‘Someone didn’t want the doctor around any more. Because he was a witness. Witnesses can be dangerous. Someone called round to see the doctor, and when that person left, the doctor was dead. You wouldn’t want that to happen to you, would you? Because you’re a witness, too. And all alone on your own here now.’ Jarrell stared at his victim. He let his words sink in. ‘Tell me what really happened.’

‘I not know. Not know nothing.’

Jarrell brought his chair closer to her, so that their knees were almost touching. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the arms of her chair. Now he was leaning right over her. ‘You do know. I know you know. And you’re going to tell me. Because if you don’t …’ and he leaned away from her as abruptly as he’d moved forward.

But Maria Camenzuli only shook her head, tears seeping down. She made a gurgling noise as she tried to sniff them back.

He’d terrorised her. It hadn’t been difficult. She hardly knew what she was saying. But it was only a start. And he hadn’t got what he wanted.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

He stood over her, gaunt and disproportionate in the hot little room. The gas fire hissed. There was a fusty smell he hadn’t noticed before, of cooking and polish and old textiles, but what might have been – had been – the comforting fug of the fire and the easy chairs and the rosy light was claustrophobic and ghastly.

‘Don’t see me out. I’ll find my way.’

Outside, Jarrell looked up and down the street. It was still raining. He stood on the pavement and then walked back up to the hotel. The building was now in total darkness. He peered through the glass door. The rain trickled down inside his collar. He shivered and turned away.