Blood Brothers (16 page)

‘Well, well,’ the constable said. ‘Not a tramp at all then, by the looks. A job for CID for sure. I wonder where the little tart who called it in has got to? For all we know it could be one of her johns and she might have some explaining to do.’

‘Nah,’ the older officer said after looking more closely. ‘Not a tart’s crime, that. There’s more to this than meets the eye.’

By the time detective sergeant Harry Barnard arrived at work the next morning a second murder inquiry was already cranking into gear. Although the body had been found well off the West End patch they soon found themselves involved, with the vice squad in the front line as the case clearly involved prostitution.

‘Nigel Wayland,’ DCI Keith Jackson told Barnard and his colleagues when he called vice squad officers together for a briefing. ‘Lived in a flat in Berwick Street, well-known nancy boy who liked to pick up partners in the queer pub. Though he seems to have eased off recently. Someone said he had a live-in lover.’

‘I know him,’ Barnard said quietly. ‘He’s been around for years. A couple of convictions for cottaging. God knows what he was doing so far from his usual haunts. I’ve never heard of queers hanging around King’s Cross before. They’re more likely to get a kicking than strike lucky. Someone must have taken him up there, in a car maybe. There are lots of quiet corners for a bit of how’s your father, as the street girls know only too well.’

‘We’ve been asked to make inquiries on our own patch,’ Jackson said. ‘So you and Copeland can concentrate on the queer pub, get in there as soon as the doors open and find out when Wayland was last seen and who with, who his regular partners were. We need to be seen to be going through the motions, I suppose, even for one of those perverts.’

Copeland laughed loudly, and most of his colleagues allowed themselves a titter, though Barnard remained stony-faced. As far as he knew he was the only person in the nick who was the least bit sympathetic to Soho’s queers and he found it politic most of the time to keep his views to himself.

‘I know that someone else who’s in that bar a lot of the time has gone missing,’ he said. ‘The barman mentioned it last time I dropped in there.’

‘Not being seduced are you, Flash?’ Copeland asked to general merriment.

Barnard waited until the room fell quiet again. ‘Bloke called Vincent Beaufort – or at least that’s what he calls himself. I shouldn’t think it’s the name he was born with. Flamboyant dresser. Some of you must know him by sight. Purple suit, as often as not, yellow cravat, green fedora, the full works. Tourists stop in the street to stare and he loves every minute of it. He seems to have dropped out of sight for some reason.’

‘Didn’t we interview him in the George Robertson case?’ DCI Jackson snapped.

‘We did,’ Barnard said. ‘But he wasn’t much help. He simply confirmed that he’s seen Georgie Robertson in the pub once or twice. But he couldn’t identify who he was talking to – or said he couldn’t – so he was no real help.’

‘Is George Robertson a bloody poofter too?’ Copeland asked.

‘Not as far as we know, but he was certainly making use of boys in his various enterprises. He might have been in there making contacts. But we never followed it up. We had enough evidence from other sources. Vincent Beaufort was surplus to requirements.’

‘Well, don’t waste any time on him, unless you think he might be involved in this killing,’ Jackson said. ‘People go missing for their own reasons, as you very well know. Concentrate on Wayland and report back to me. I’ll liaise with the murder team at King’s Cross myself. But it’s not our case and we’ve no reason to bust a gut over it. Not that AC Amis will mind us stirring up the queers. He doesn’t like them any more than I do. But in terms of results it’s more important to identify the body we found at Tottenham Court Road. Any progress on that?’

‘Not so far, guv,’ Barnard said. ‘A couple of dozen labourers on the site over the last month or so have simply disappeared. Some have gone back to Ireland.’

When Jackson had marched back to his own office, Copeland slapped Barnard on the back. ‘Come on, Flash,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and stir up a few shirt-lifters. Beats chasing petty thieves any day.’

Seething quietly Barnard followed Copeland out of the nick into the rain which was still beating down. ‘Are you on the square, Vic?’ Barnard asked as they crossed Regent Street and moved into the narrow lanes of Soho.

Copeland gave him a sharp look. ‘I am, as it goes. You’re not, I’m told.’

‘Never saw the point,’ Barnard said.

‘Why do you ask?’ Copeland said. ‘I was wondering the same thing about Ray Robertson, especially since he took up with Reg Smith. Is Robertson on the square? Smith certainly is.’

‘Not as far as I know,’ Barnard said cautiously. ‘He’s never mentioned it to me.’

‘It just crossed my mind that he must have good contacts with the Yard to have kept himself out of the frame for so long. It can’t just be because he’s an old mate of yours, can it? And I know for a fact that Smith has pulled in some favours in that quarter.’

‘Masonic favours?’

‘Sure. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? It’s certainly done me some good over the years, when things got a bit rough. You should give it a go, Harry. In your situation I’d make it a top priority. I’ll give you the names of some top brethren in the police lodges, if you like. Could do you a lot of good.’

DS Barnard did not reply and as they were approaching their destination Copeland did not appear to expect any response to his gratuitous advice. They swung into the queer pub which was crowded on a Saturday lunchtime and made for the bar where the barman acknowledged Barnard with a nod and went on serving two men in motorbike leathers who were surveying the scene via the mirror behind the optics. They obviously liked what they were seeing and pushed away into the crowds with a determined expression.

‘Pete, my boy, have you seen anything of Vincent Beaufort since we last spoke?’ Barnard asked.

The barman shook his head. ‘He’s not been around,’ he said. ‘He’s usually in here most days but not today, nor for a few days, as it goes.’

Copeland slapped a blurred photograph on to the counter and stabbed a finger on to what was clearly an image taken after death rather than before. ‘This one of your customers too?’ he asked.

‘Nige?’

‘Nigel Wayland,’ Copeland agreed.

‘Yeah, he’s a regular. Lives local, I think. Have you lost him too?’

Copeland did not respond to the question. ‘Can you point out any of his mates?’ he asked.

The barman looked doubtful. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘He used to chat to Vince regularly but on the whole he’d just pop in and out – come in on his own and then leave with someone, you know how it is?’

‘Not really,’ Copeland snapped. ‘See anyone here now who he’s ever left with?’

The barman looked uncomfortable and flashed an appeal in Barnard’s direction which he ignored. ‘Not really,’ the barman said. ‘No one I can remember for definite.’

Barnard knew that there was no way that the barman was going to start identifying people whose liaisons were certain to be illegal. ‘Nigel Wayland has been killed, murdered,’ he said quietly. ‘I think maybe you should give some thought to who might have had contact with him recently? Give it a serious go and we’ll come back to see you after the weekend when your memory might be a bit better. And if you do happen to see Vincent Beaufort can you tell him I want a word?’

The barman swallowed hard and nodded and watched the two sergeants intently as they spun and made their way through the deeply suspicious crowd to the door.

‘You let him off the hook,’ Copeland complained as they headed west again. ‘Half an hour in an interview room would soon bring his memory back.’

‘He’ll give us what we want,’ Barnard said. ‘Just give him a bit of time. You don’t need to beat information out of people. It’s more reliable if it’s volunteered.’

‘Huh,’ Copeland grunted with evident disbelief.

‘Come on, let’s go and take a look at Wayland’s flat while we’re here,’ Barnard suggested. ‘I dare say the King’s Cross mob have already given it a going over but they might have missed something.’

‘Knowing their DCI, you can almost guarantee that,’ Copeland said.

‘On the square as well is he?’ Barnard asked.

‘He wouldn’t be where he is today if he wasn’t,’ Copeland said and gave Barnard a knowing smile.

It was mid-afternoon before Kate heard anything at all from Harry Barnard and she and Tess were running out of ideas to keep the boy they had reluctantly given house room to occupied. He had slept for most of the morning under blankets on the sofa and then paced the living room like a nervous animal expecting the arrival of a predator at any minute. When the doorbell rang he stiffened and grabbed Kate’s arm.

She disentangled herself from his fierce grip and looked out at the window. ‘It’s all right, la,’ she said. ‘It’s Harry. Let’s hope he’s found you somewhere better to stay.’

Tess let the sergeant in and he arrived at the flat looking cheerful.

‘OK, Jimmy. The Rev Dave has done the necessary again. Not the same place you went to last time, obviously, but someone else up in Hertfordshire. They’ve agreed to keep you there until the trial so you shouldn’t have any more problems. If the prosecution lawyers want to talk to you I’ll get Dave Hamilton to take them out there, no one else. So not even I will know where you are. OK?’

Jimmy nodded, twisting his hands together nervously. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I suppose.’

‘You’re a witness,’ Barnard said flatly. ‘You know too much. Scotland Yard hasn’t kept you safe. You’ve got no money and no prospects. This is the best I can do. The trial will be on at the Old Bailey in a month or so and then you’ll be in the clear. Come on, let’s go. Mr Hamilton’s expecting us. I could lose my job over this so don’t mess me about.’

As he hustled the boy towards the door, Harry turned back briefly. ‘What about a meal tonight,’ he asked.

Kate shook her head. ‘Carter Price has been pestering me for days so I said I’d have dinner with him tonight,’ she said. ‘He’s picking me up at eight.’ When she saw Barnard’s flash of anger she smiled. ‘Sorry,’ she said sweetly. ‘Another time?’

As it turned out, Carter Price arrived late, contenting himself with blowing his horn outside the flat until she appeared, and opening the door for her without getting out of the car. She slid into the passenger seat and glanced at him without much enthusiasm.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I got held up at the office.’ He revved the engine and drove back to central London without any further comment. He was looking, Kate thought, unusually haggard but by the time they had arrived back into the West End his mood seemed to have lightened and he ushered her out of the car and into a restaurant in Charlotte Street with impeccable courtesy.

‘You’ll like this,’ he said. ‘Genuine French food, the real deal, be a change from all that Italian stuff you say you like.’

‘I draw the line at snails,’ she whispered as they were shown to their table by a supercilious waiter in black tie. ‘And frogs’ legs. Don’t fancy them, la.’

‘You really are a provincial little lady, aren’t you? You need taking in hand, you know.’ He gave her a self-satisfied smirk which almost persuaded her to turn tail and leave.

‘Am I worth the trouble?’ she asked tartly.

‘Oh, I think you might be,’ Price said. ‘Time will tell.’

The waiter handed them menus which Kate found bewildering as most of it was written in French with only the most sparse English translations underneath.

‘Let me choose for you,’ Price offered as she hesitated and the waiter hovered. ‘Is it fish, chips and mushy peas where you come from, or – what’s it called – Scouse?’

‘Scouse,’ Kate snapped. ‘And I like fish. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Price said. ‘Fish you shall have then, my dear. What about
sole bonne femme.
That’s cooked in butter. And to start with let’s go for the soup, that’s a safe choice. I’ll have the same.’ He relayed the order to the waiter and consulted the wine waiter over a suitable accompaniment and then settled back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

‘I’m sorry, petal, I had a fairly difficult meeting with my boss this afternoon. It seems that the picture editor you met, Bill Kenyon, has somehow found out that I’m doing some research with you instead of one of the staff photographers and is not best pleased. I’m infringing his monopoly apparently. The news editor knows what I’m doing and had no objections initially but now it seems there are a few. I guess it’s because I claimed the cost on my expenses. Normally they go through more or less on the nod but this time apparently not.’

‘Do you think Mitch Graveney could have found out that you’ve been following him and Reg Smith? He might have complained,’ Kate suggested.

‘He could, I suppose, though if he had a grievance he’s more likely to raise it through his blasted union than through my bosses. I’ve been very, very careful with the printers I’ve talked to about him. I don’t want to risk bringing the paper to a standstill, for God’s sake. The only other thing I’ve done about him is ask someone I know in the Masonic hierarchy who owes me a favour to see if they can get a list of the members of the lodge Graveney and Smith belong to. I’ve not heard back from him yet. But in the meantime I seem to have been dropped in the mire somehow.’

‘So are we going to be able to carry on?’ Kate asked, knowing that Ken Fellows had almost certainly drawn up a watertight contract which would not let Price wriggle out of paying what had been agreed.

‘For the moment,’ Price said. ‘But they’re breathing down my neck for some reason. But I won’t let that stop me. I didn’t expect this to end up on my home turf but if it has it’s all the more reason to follow it up, don’t you think?’

The soup arrived and Price filled up Kate’s glass, which was already half empty.

‘You’ll get me tipsy,’ she said.

‘Mmm,’ Price said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you home safe and sound.’

But where, Kate wondered, her head already muzzy, will we be going in the meantime?

K
ate arrived late at the agency next morning, pale and faintly nauseous, and was not totally surprised to see Harry Barnard watching the office door from the opposite side of the street.