Blood Brothers (15 page)

‘So we were right to be worried about him,’ Kate said.

‘Where else might he try to hide?’ Hamilton asked. ‘There’s nowhere here where he could shelter for any length of time. The outbuildings have all been securely locked up since … since what happened last time. And we’ve cut the shrubberies back. Liam, the lad who saw him, thought he was trying to get into the boiler room where he would at least have been warm. Jimmy asked him if he had any money. Said he wanted to catch a train.’ The vicar shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t know how much train tickets cost,’ he said.

‘He may have gone back to the embankment by Faringdon underground, where he camped with Hamish Macdonald,’ Barnard said. ‘Or if he really wants to get on a train he may have gone to King’s Cross. That’s the station he must have arrived at from Doncaster when he first came to London. But there are hundreds of places to hide round there in those back streets and goods yards behind the station. Kate and I will have a look around for him, Mr Hamilton.’ He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, scribbled something on it and handed it to the vicar. ‘That’s my home number,’ he said. ‘Call me there later if by any chance he turns up here again. I can be here in fifteen minutes from Highgate if you need me.’

Hamilton looked at him angrily. ‘I thought this boy was being kept safe by the police,’ he said, obviously controlling his temper with difficulty. ‘They don’t seem to have been making a very good job of it, do they, sergeant?’

‘Tomorrow I’ll try to find out how he managed to give his minders the slip,’ he said. ‘But for now we need to find him if we can. He’s not safe out there on his own.’

Barnard drove Kate quickly away from Soho and into the quieter streets of Holborn and then Faringdon. He pulled up eventually alongside the fence surrounding the still derelict bomb sites above the tube line which here ran along the steep-sided, long-covered course of the River Fleet. Barnard hoisted himself on to the top of the fence and realized that there was no longer any sign of the vagrants’ encampment which had existed here eighteen months ago. The banking above the train tracks was in total darkness until fitfully lit up by a train rattling past in the direction of King’s Cross.

Barnard jumped down on to the pavement beside Kate again. ‘There’s no one there as far as I can see,’ he said. ‘They’ve obviously fenced off the whole area more securely to keep the vagrants out. And if he gets in there all the trees and bushes have been cleared. Anyone with a powerful torch would be able to see him without any trouble. Even more so when the trains run past.’

Kate leaned against the fence feeling defeated.

Barnard looked at his watch and sighed. ‘I have to see Ray tonight if I possibly can,’ he said. ‘He may have some idea why the witnesses have panicked and run, if that’s what’s really happened.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘I can go home to eat.’ She glanced up and down a deserted Faringdon Road and stiffened, putting a hand on Barnard’s arm. ‘Look,’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t that him?’

A slight figure was heading towards them and they realized that they must be pretty well invisible standing still beside the dark fencing.

‘I’ll do it,’ Kate said softly. ‘He’ll trust me more than you. He’ll remember me.’

‘Be careful,’ Barnard whispered. ‘He might panic.’

With infinite care she detached herself from the fence without the boy apparently noticing and let him draw level.

‘Jimmy?’ she said quietly and she was close enough to put a hand on his arm. He made a panicky attempt to free himself but Barnard closed quickly on the other side and hemmed him in. The boy’s shoulders slumped and he seemed to gasp for air.

‘We’re not going to hurt you, Jimmy,’ Barnard said. ‘We want to make sure you’re safe.’

There was another gulp from the boy, who was trembling in their grip. ‘I’m not bloody safe am I?’ Jimmy said, the Yorkshire accent still strong. ‘I was looking for Hamish. He’ll see me right.’

‘Hamish isn’t here,’ Barnard said. ‘No one’s here any more. They’ve cleared the embankment completely.’ He could not tell Jimmy what he feared had become of Hamish now, he thought. That would panic him completely. ‘Come on, there’s a caff on the corner. We’ll get you some tea and something to eat. Then we can decide where you can be really safe. All right?’

‘Aye, all right,’ the boy mumbled and began to cry.

‘We can’t keep him here,’ Tess said in a desperate whisper as she shut the door of her bedroom on Jimmy Earnshaw who was sitting on their sofa in the small living room demolishing the second cheese sandwich she had made him and gazing at the small black and white television in the corner.

‘I know, I know,’ Kate said.

‘What’s he going to do when we’re both out at work? He’ll either run off with anything he can carry or lie on the sofa all day taking drugs.’

‘I know, I know,’ Kate said again. ‘It’s just temporary, I promise. Harry said it was too dangerous to take him to his place. Someone might work out where he was hiding if it leaked out from the kids at the church he’d been there. It’s Saturday tomorrow so we’ll sort something out for him properly tomorrow, preferably out of London. Harry says he’ll come round in the morning. Don’t worry. It’s only for tonight.’

Tess still looked mutinous but she went to the cupboard in the corner of her room where they kept spare sheets and blankets and pulled some of the bedding out.

‘I’ll lock the front door and put the key under my pillow so he can’t get out,’ Kate said. ‘That’s the best we can do, I think. Then we’ll see what Harry comes up with in the morning.’

O
nce he had dropped Kate and a reluctant Jimmy Earnshaw off at the Shepherd’s Bush flat where he reckoned the boy would be safe for one night at least, Harry Barnard headed east and parked outside Ray Robertson’s gym just off the Mile End Road. He could hear the sound of some fairly vigorous training going on inside even before he pushed open the door but he was surprised to see Ray himself, in singlet and shorts beating merry hell out of a punchbag. Robertson had been a contender himself in his late teens but Barnard could see now how far he had let himself go. His arms were flabby and his paunch hung over his shorts and the exercise had left him breathless and sweating.

‘Flash,’ he gasped. ‘Come in, come in, and tell me how to get this beggar Copeland off my back, will you. The man’s a menace.’ As Robertson turned in his direction Barnard could see that his left eye was bruised and half-closed and there were other bruises on his jaw and the side of his neck. Barnard winced but Robertson gave him a faint grin.

‘I didn’t duck fast enough,’ he said. ‘I’m out of condition. All this went on before my lawyer got there. He’s raising the roof with your DCI. I didn’t get that sort of treatment when I was a nipper in Bethnal Green.’

‘Copeland was in the City force,’ Barnard said. ‘They’re well known for it.’

‘That’s not all they’re well known for,’ Robertson muttered. ‘Some of them make you lot in Soho look like amateurs. I know one ex-super who’s living the life of Riley in a ten-bed mansion in Essex.’ He led the way to his office, and towelled himself down before pulling on slacks and a polo-neck sweater.

‘Well, Copeland got away with murder in my book, so watch out,’ Barnard said. ‘And I do mean murder. He’s a violent bastard. And as far as I can see he’s gunning for me too. So I’m walking on eggshells.’

‘I thought you must be keeping your distance,’ Robertson said. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. ‘Here, don’t let the kids out there see you but I reckon it’s time for a drink.’ He handed Barnard a generous measure and knocked his own back quickly. ‘This is all getting out of hand,’ he said. ‘I’ve got plans just now that I don’t want disrupted. Copeland’s got nothing on me. He’s just playing games.’

‘Are you still talking to Reg Smith?’ Barnard asked. ‘If Copeland gets a whisper of that he’ll not let go.’

‘Nah, he blows hot and cold does Reggie,’ Robertson said dismissively. ‘I don’t reckon it’s going to come to anything even if I volunteer to help, which I’m very doubtful I will. He’s got other irons in the fire. Anyway if you’re up the swanny yourself the less you know the better. I’ll keep out of his way for a bit, though I still think he’s a good man to work with.’

‘Maybe,’ Barnard said, not hiding his scepticism.

‘Anyway the thing I’m worried about is nothing to do with all that. It’s my plans for a gala, if you must know. That’s not going well.’

‘I’m sure it’ll work out,’ Barnard said. ‘The sort of toffs you invite are always ready for a good night out.’

Robertson grinned and poured another measure. ‘Anyway, is this just a social call or what?’ he asked.

‘Not quite,’ Barnard said. ‘I wondered if you’d had any feedback on Georgie’s case recently. I’m getting suggestions that he might get off.’

Robertson’s face darkened.

‘I only ask because I know for a fact that at least one of the prosecution witnesses is running round London on his own scared witless, and another of them might be dead.’

‘How the hell did that happen?’ Robertson asked, knocking back his Scotch and almost choking. ‘I thought the Yard was looking after all that.’

‘The Yard’s gone amazingly quiet about the whole business. But it’s only a matter of time before they wonder if you might be trying to get Georgie off by nobbling the prosecution’s witnesses,’ Barnard said. ‘I’m happy to tell them that’s garbage but they’re not likely to believe me. Or you, if they come asking.’

‘Jesus wept,’ Robertson said. ‘Could they really think I want that psycho on my back again? Blood might be thicker than water in some people’s books but not if it’s as curdled as my little brother’s. He’s a complete liability, Flash. You know that.’

‘I might know that but I get the impression that there’s a few people at the Yard who might not believe you if it suited their book. And Copeland’s their stooge, make no mistake about that. He’ll prove what he wants to prove if he’s got backing from on high. You know how these things work.’

‘He doesn’t want to believe me, you mean,’ Robertson said, his face flushed. ‘He fancies nailing two Robertsons instead of just one? That’s one of the things Copeland was going on about till my brief told him to back off. I gave the bastards all the help I could when all that was going on in spite of having my ma on my back going bananas. You know what she’s like.’

‘Are you sure she couldn’t still be trying to help Georgie out somehow? I reckon someone is.’

‘Nah,’ Robertson said. ‘I told you, she’s well past it, over the hill.’

‘It’s a line of inquiry Copeland might follow up however old she is,’ Barnard said. ‘I’d warn her to look out for him, if I were you. He’d thump his own grandmother if he thought it would get him somewhere. In the meantime I’ve got a legal contact who’s trying to find out what’s happening to the witnesses. I’ll let you know if she comes up with anything. In the meantime I’ll keep well out of your way. Nothing personal, mate, but I need to cover my own back.’

‘Yeah, you do that Flash. You’re a damn sight more use to me in the force than out of it. Contact me through Fred if you must, but keep me in touch with what’s going on.’

The narrow network of streets behind King’s Cross and St Pancras railway stations, with their sharp bends and tunnels and semi-derelict archways beneath the tracks were avoided by all law-abiding Londoners by night. Only the street girls lingered on foot on ill-lit corners waiting for clients, who generally cruised by in cars flicking their headlights over the talent before pulling into the kerb and opening an inviting door, or for the police to descend mob handed and bundle them all into vans, lining them up next morning for the ritual fines which did nothing to stop them working again the very next day. That night the rain had set in by nine and the young women and girls were shivering in their skimpy clothes. A group of them huddled under a railway arch for protection, keeping close to generate some warmth with little sense that the punters would bother to come out tonight. Only the desperate would brave the elements and they were the ones to be feared.

‘There’s a bit of a pong back there,’ one girl said, peering into the Stygian darkness behind them.

‘Never mind, at least you can see the street from here,’ someone countered. ‘If I don’t turn any tricks tonight my bloke is not going to be best pleased. I need to see if any cars turn down here.’

‘It’s getting worse,’ another woman said watching the puddles outside overflowing the broken down kerb and turning into a small river which threatened to invade their space. ‘I’m off.’ And she unfurled a battered umbrella and plunged into the dim rain-drenched street and quickly disappeared. The four more persistent women stayed under the shelter of the archway and inched further back to avoid the flurries of icy water which were being flung towards them by biting gusts of wind.

‘What is that disgusting smell?’ one asked. ‘It’s getting worse.’

‘Dead dog?’ another suggested. Another lit a cigarette and while the match briefly flared raised it to offer a flicker of flame which penetrated towards the back of the arch revealing a clutter of rubbish.

‘Dead man more like,’ she said matter-of-factly lighting a second match. ‘There’s a foot sticking out back there under that box.

‘Christ,’ the youngest girl whispered. ‘I’m off too. I don’t want anything to do with dead men.’

The woman with the cigarette grabbed her arm. ‘We’re all off, darling,’ she said. ‘But who’s got some change? I’m not saying we hang about but someone needs to call the rozzers, don’t they? Whoever he is we can’t just leave him there to rot, poor old bastard. We’ve got to call the Old Bill.’

‘I think you can dial nine nine nine for free,’ another offered before spinning on her stiletto heel and plunging into the downpour outside.

When the Old Bill eventually turned up in the shape of two patrolling constables with powerful flashlights all the women had long gone, but the bad smell they had noticed was quickly identified by the older bobby.

‘That’s not just a tramp,’ he said, his face lugubrious by nature and not about to change at all whatever the job threw at him. ‘That’s a dead tramp.’ He directed his light over what was visible of the dead man beneath the boxes and other rubbish piled up at the back of the arch, illuminating to his surprise all the signs of a well-dressed middle-aged man beneath the debris with one hand limp in a welter of congealed blood and a knife slash across his throat which had obviously killed him.