Blood Brothers (6 page)

‘Mr Amis is coming back for a nine o’clock briefing in the morning so be there. I thought I’d suggest then that you were the best person to take Copeland round,’ Jackson said sharply. ‘You know where all the bodies are buried. So don’t complain you weren’t warned.’

‘Talking of bodies, did Mr Amis say he was missing a witness in the Georgie Robertson case? I could be mistaken about the corpse from Centre Point. One tramp looks much like another, especially in that state. But he had a look of our man except that he’s supposed to be tucked away somewhere in a safe house.’

‘He didn’t mention anything to do with the George Robertson case,’ Jackson said. ‘He seemed much more concerned about what his brother Ray is up to, especially as he seems to be having meetings with Reg Smith. Did you know about that?’

‘I’d heard a few rumours but I didn’t think it was serious. They’ve been at daggers drawn for years. Every now and again it goes off but so far we’ve had no serious casualties. I can’t imagine they’re going to get together after all this time.’ Although allowing for Ray Robertson’s fantasies of outdoing the Great Train robbers perhaps the idea was not so far fetched. Barnard knew him well enough to know that a heist on that scale was beyond Ray Robertson’s competence, but Reg Smith was another matter entirely.

‘See what you can find out,’ Jackson said. ‘I don’t like intelligence coming from the Yard when we should have picked it up ourselves.’

‘Right,’ Barnard said. ‘So when’s he arriving then, Bruiser Copeland? I think CID should be told.’

‘You’ll be told tomorrow,’ Jackson snapped. ‘I suppose he might even get here tomorrow. The AC seemed to be in a hurry. You can pass it on quietly so no one can complain CID wasn’t warned beforehand. I’m not best pleased to have him here, believe me. He’ll bring nothing but trouble, you can be sure of that, for me as well as you. So keep an eye on him, sergeant. I don’t want any dead bodies in my cells, d’ye understand?’

‘Yes, guv,’ Barnard said soberly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

W
hen Kate O’Donnell arrived at work the next day, she was surprised to see the heavyweight figure of Carter Price weaving through the cluttered photographers’ desks to Ken Fellows’ office, tapping on the door and being welcomed inside. All that could be heard for the next half hour was the steady drone of voices, and she was even more surprised to see Fellows eventually open his door and beckon her inside.

‘Kate,’ he said as she squeezed into the limited space available without getting too close to Price. ‘We’ve got an assignment for you that’s a bit unusual.’

‘What’s that?’ Kate asked, looking uncertain. The last unusual excursion she had taken for the agency was a secondment into the fashion industry which had not ended well.

‘Perhaps you’d better explain,’ Fellows said to Price, and Kate wondered why he too seemed unusually hesitant. Something, she thought, was up, and it was not a thought she welcomed.

‘I need some pictures taken,’ Price said with a heartiness which did not ring quite true. ‘And for now I want them taken outside my office set-up. You met our picture editor, Bill Kenyon. For some reason he’s never got a photographer free when I want one, especially when I want to do some digging around. Research I suppose you could call it. He’ll send a man down to the Bailey or the High Court at the drop of a hat but anything a bit more offbeat and he’s suddenly too short-staffed. I think there’s more to it than that, but of course I can’t prove it. So I thought I’d look for a bit of freelance talent I could hire on my exes. No one ever queries them.’ He gave Kate the smile of a grizzly bear about to land a salmon.

‘Naturally I thought of you,’ he went on. ‘I want to go down south of the river this week and some snaps would be really useful. I could go on my own but a couple in some of the pubs I want to visit will look much more innocent than a nosy bloke on his own. We’d just look like tourists out for a jaunt on the wild side. Something like that.’

‘Is this to do with what we were talking about the other night?’ Kate asked, her voice full of suspicion. ‘You were talking about Ray Robertson and his brother. I really don’t want to get involved with them. You know why.’

‘No, no, this is nothing to do with his mob. This is strictly south of the river, Reg Smith’s territory. There’s no love lost there.’

Still unsure, Kate glanced at Ken Fellows. ‘Is this official with you?’ she said. ‘Part of the job.’

‘Of course,’ Fellows said airily, although Kate could see he was not entirely comfortable with the idea.

‘As far as you’re concerned it’ll just be an evening out, with a few quiet pictures taken when I tell you,’ Price said. ‘A little bird tells me there’s something going on down there, something to put the train robbers’ noses out of joint. A big job but without the stupid mistakes Reynolds and that gang made. But it’s only a rumour I want to check out. Nothing heavy.’

Kate couldn’t help feeling that Price was trying to convince himself as much as her. ‘How do you come to hear rumours like that?’ she asked.

Price smiled and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’s more than you need to know, petal,’ he said. ‘Crime reporters have their own contacts, you know? Their own sources of information. Will Saturday night suit you?’

‘You can have a day off in return,’ Fellows said, though he sounded grudging.

Price must be paying him something substantial to justify this, Kate thought. She nodded. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘It’s out of the office, at least, and it sounds interesting. Why not?’

‘Right, you make the arrangements with Kate,’ Fellows said to Price dismissively. ‘Now bugger off and let me get on with the rest of the day.’

Kate followed Price out into the main office, from which most of the photographers had already set off on the day’s assignments. She herself was due at a fashion show in the West End, but Price put a hand on her arm before she could collect her coat.

‘This is a private arrangement between me and you and Ken,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t go telling anyone about it. You know who I mean?’

‘Why is your picture editor being so difficult about it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know for sure,’ Price said. ‘There’s wheels within wheels in Fleet Street. A lot of the printers and some of the hacks live in south-east London, where there’s also a lot of crime. I sometimes think there are connections there. It’s a very tight world, jobs get handed on from father to son, there’s supposed to be a whole lot of men on the payroll who don’t actually exist – Mickey Mouse and Tommy Steele are favourites. The unions are powerful and connive with it all. But that’s something people like me have to leave well alone. I think I’m safe enough looking at what Reg Smith is up to, but if Reg Smith down in Peckham turns out to have a best mate working at the
Globe,
I’m stuffed. The story will never run.’

Kate shivered, trying to push her misgivings aside. ‘Just this once, then,’ she said. ‘If I don’t feel safe I’ll say no next time. I’ve had a bit too much excitement in this job already. I think I prefer a quiet life.’

‘You’re a doll,’ Price said. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you when I’ve got something set up.’

DS Harry Barnard, in his usual smart Italian suit but an unusually sober dark tie, had taken his place in the conference room early, choosing a seat centrally placed but towards the back of the chairs set out that morning for the entire complement of CID officers who served the West End. The room filled up quickly but the conversation was muted as if the men had gathered for a wake. The news that they were apparently under surveillance themselves had flashed around CID in record time and the name Copeland had raised hackles in the pubs after work. As the clock ticked relentlessly up to nine, the murmuring was reduced to a sullen silence.

Assistant Commissioner John Amis arrived dead on time, led in by a stony-faced DCI Keith Jackson and followed by a broad-shouldered heavyweight wearing a leather jacket over his suit and a look of subdued triumph barely concealed by a bland smile. But the eyes were watchful, small and set deep, beneath a thatch of dark hair cut very short, and the lips thin, the lines around them deeply entrenched. DS Vic Copeland looked like trouble, Barnard thought, but he had so far come up with no feasible strategy to dodge Jackson’s plan to make them a team.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Amis said, prompting more than one hastily concealed smirk from a group which was seldom thought of – or thought of itself – in those terms. ‘Let’s be under no illusions,’ Amis went on. ‘The commissioner himself has authorized this meeting and the measures I have been asked to take to tackle what we see as a crisis in public confidence over policing in this division. The law-abiding residents of Soho – and I am assured there are some – are quite clear that it is increasingly difficult to distinguish between lawbreakers and law enforcers in their area particularly.’ None of the assembled officers dared to voice even a murmur of dissent at that, although the funereal faces of many of them dropped another couple of notches into outright discontent. Undoubtedly able to feel the chilly atmosphere Amis raised his voice a fraction as Jackson scowled at his detectives.

‘It can’t go on,’ Amis said. ‘It is perfectly evident to the public, and even more damagingly, to members of the Press, that Soho has become lawless. It is obviously in the hands of criminal gangsters who run prostitution and protection and extortion rackets, and equally obvious that some of you are in the pockets of these gangsters and others of you are being paid to turn a blind eye by petty offenders and perverts and to ignore the complaints of innocent business people. You are bringing the entire Force into disrepute and it has got to stop.’

There was an uneasy shuffling amongst the detectives which was quelled by icy looks from both senior officers.

Amis held up his hand. ‘DCI Jackson has been instructed to refer any wrongdoing which comes to light straight to me at the Yard,’ he said. ‘And to help him in his task of uncovering illegality, I have seconded DS Copeland, late of the City of London force, to CID here. He will work with the team in the normal way but will be required to report back regularly to Mr Jackson if – or more likely when – he becomes aware of any misconduct. And by that I mean even the smallest infringement of the rules.’

DS Robbie Mason, heavyweight, red-faced, stalwart of the Police Federation, and near enough to retirement to be the least intimidated by the assistant commissioner amongst those present, waved a hand in the air and lumbered to his feet. ‘With respect sir,’ he growled, ‘you seem to be working from an assumption that everyone here is guilty of something, regardless of evidence to that effect.’

There was a murmur of agreement from those around him, and AC Amis’s face darkened. ‘Disciplinary matters will be dealt with in the usual way,’ he said. ‘But nobody here should make any mistake. I expect there to be far more of them than there have been in the recent past. Far more.’ And if anyone in the room did not entirely believe John Amis’s determination the vigorous nods of agreement from DCI Jackson and DS Copeland should have left them in no doubt of the seriousness of the situation. Amis glanced at his watch and made to pick up his uniform cap and gloves but before he could stand up Harry Barnard put up his hand and stood up in his turn.

‘Could I ask one question, sir, about an ongoing case?’ Amis looked as if he would refuse but Barnard went on quickly. ‘The witnesses in the case against Georgie Robertson,’ he said. ‘Are they all present and correct, sir? No one’s gone AWOL?’

‘Of course not, sergeant,’ Amis snapped. ‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Just that I saw someone who looked very like one of them, sir,’ Barnard said airily, trying to bury his anxiety about one very young witness in Georgie’s case. ‘He was found in very unfortunate circumstances. But if you have them all safe there’s no problem, is there?’

‘You arrested Robertson, didn’t you, sergeant?’

‘Yes sir, and I’d very much like to see him put away,’ Barnard said.

DCI Jackson, who had looked embarrassed during this exchange, stood up. ‘If there are no more questions I will see Mr Amis out,’ Jackson said, making it pretty clear by his stony expression that no more would be taken. ‘Barnard, I’ll see you in my office in ten minutes.’

DS Copeland did not follow the detectives back to the CID office where a torrent of grumbles immediately erupted, but made his exit with the senior officers.

Barnard slumped in his chair without, for once, taking off his jacket and hanging it up carefully.

‘You’re going to have to watch it,’ Robbie Mason muttered, leaning confidentially over the back of his chair, taking care not to be overheard in the general hubbub. ‘I always thought you were too pally with Ray Robertson. It’ll come back to haunt you mate, if that bastard Copeland gets his teeth into it.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Barnard said. ‘I can’t undo the fact that I grew up with the Robertson brothers, can I? But you’re right. I’ll steer clear of Ray for a bit. I know it makes sense.’

‘You’re not the only one who’s going to have to make changes while Copeland’s around. Let’s just hope he’s not here for long.’

Barnard glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go and see what Jackson wants,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the advice, Robbie. Believe me, I’m listening.’ And as if to prove it, there was less spring in Barnard’s step than usual as he made his way to Jackson’s office and knocked on the door. To his surprise it was opened by DS Vic Copeland whose eyes were as stony as his welcoming smile was wide.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said and waved to one of the two chairs ranged in front of the desk of a definitely unsmiling DCI Jackson.

‘Sit down, both of you,’ Jackson said. He steepled his hands in front of his face. ‘You both heard what Mr Amis said,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to repeat any of it except to say that things have got to change. Barnard, I want you to work closely with Sergeant Copeland until he learns his way around the manor. Take him around with you for the rest of the week, introduce him to your contacts, show him the premises of particular interest. There’s plenty of those, God knows. Point him in the direction of the toms, the pimps and the perverts, the petty thieves and the conmen. Make sure he knows who’s a likely source of information on the Maltese and Ray Robertson’s mob.’