Dressed To Kill (A Kate O'Donnell Mystery) (22 page)

Saprelli thumped his file of papers on to the table and sat down and the warder left the room, telling them to knock on the door when they were finished.

‘So don’t I get a lawyer?’ Abraham asked Barnard. ‘Ain’t I entitled?’

‘Apparently this interview will be conducted under American army regulations,’ Barnard said. He had argued with Saprelli over this point but had been overruled by the DCI who seemed determined to ship Abraham out of the country on the next available flight. ‘I’m only here to observe,’ he said with a shrug.

‘Right soldier, let’s get sorted out just who you really are,’ Saprelli snapped. He pulled the photograph that he had shown Barnard at the embassy and showed it to Abraham. ‘Do you deny that’s you – Abraham Moses Davis – AWOL since October twenty-seventh, 1945. Last sighted that evening in the village of Edershaw, five miles from the transit camp where you were awaiting a flight home and where you unlawfully struck Sergeant Gary Strang when he approached you to remonstrate about you consorting with a white girl. That you, soldier?’

Abraham shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘That ain’t me. No way.’

Saprelli did not argue but pulled some more papers out of his file. ‘This is your signature, taken from your army record,’ he said, slapping a sheet of paper down in front of Abraham. ‘And this is your signature taken from the receipt you signed here for your belongings when you were brought in. Abraham Moses Davis and David Abraham – Muddy not being a given name anyone would accept, I guess. You can say that they were signed nearly twenty years apart, but you made the mistake of using part of your name again. Abraham – it’s identical.’

Abraham still objected. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I ain’t that man.’

‘Well I’m sure you are and I’m telling you now I’m applying to have you sent back to the US of A to have you face the homicide indictment you should have faced in 1945.’

‘Homicide?’ Abraham said, clearly shocked. ‘Who said anything about homicide? I thought you said this man Davis hit the sergeant . . .’

‘He did and Strang hit his head as he went down,’ Saprelli said. ‘He died in hospital two days later.’

‘Jeezus, man,’ Abraham said, flashing a glance at Barnard whose eyes were fixed on his notebook. ‘Can they do that to a British citizen?’ he asked.

‘We can’t find any record of naturalization papers in your name,’ Barnard said quietly. ‘Though I suppose it depends which of your names you used.’

Muddy Abraham shook his head like a baited bear. It was obvious that if he had taken out naturalization papers in another name his denials that he was the man Saprelli wanted were a waste of breath. ‘This is crazy,’ he said. ‘This is nearly twenty years ago we’re talking about.’

‘Sergeant Strang is still dead,’ Saprelli said. ‘Why should the United States Army forgive or forget that, soldier? The witnesses are still alive and willing to testify and get some justice for Strang’s family. He had five kids.’

‘Jee-e-ez,’ Abraham breathed into the silence. ‘Sergeant Barnard, can I have a private word with you?’

Barnard glanced at Saprelli who hesitated for a second and then nodded.

‘I’ll wait outside,’ he said. ‘But don’t imagine anything you can say to Sergeant Barnard is going to make a difference to your situation, soldier. Uncle Sam wants you and nothing you say’s going to change that. You’re going back home and you’ll fry.’

When the American officer had gone Barnard took his seat opposite Muddy Abraham.

‘If I help you can you help me?’ Abraham said bluntly.

Barnard shrugged. ‘You’ve got some time,’ he said. ‘And if you help me I could maybe get you a bit more as a witness we need to keep tabs on for a murder trial. But in the end, they’ll probably get their extradition. It has to go to court here, but I can’t see a court refusing the request even after such a long time. Murder is murder. And America is our ally.’

‘I had no idea he was dead,’ Abraham whispered, and then, realizing that what he had just said amounted to a confession, he said no more, his broad shoulders sagging. ‘I didn’t hit him hard.’

Barnard waited, lighting a cigarette and offering Abraham one.

The American took one and lit it slowly, dragging the smoke deep into his lungs like a drowning man drags air on his last visit to the surface. ‘OK,’ Abraham said at last. ‘Your dead girl. When we talked about her I wasn’t tellin’ you everything.’

‘I didn’t think so,’ Barnard said. ‘So what did you leave out?’

‘The little girl who died? I saw her a couple of times with Chris Swift. Once outside on the sidewalk, once inside the club. I reckon Chris was doing a bit of business with some of the girls on the game – sleeping with them, maybe, but maybe more than that. I think he may be their pimp.’

‘This is Chris Swift we’re talking about?’ Barnard said. ‘The man who says he’d like the Jazz Cellar to be pretty well anywhere but in Soho where there are all these tarts around? The man who sounds like he should be running a bloody Sunday school?’

‘That’s the man,’ Abraham said. ‘He’s a good actor, I’d say. And a good liar. But he has a temper. I’ve seen him lose it a couple of times when the music’s not going as it should. And once with the girl. The next time I saw her she had bruises, a lot of bruises.’

‘And you’d be prepared to give evidence against him in court, if it came to that? If we find enough evidence and can charge him?’

‘Sure thing,’ Abraham said. ‘And there’s more. I don’t think he was running these girls on his own. I think he had a partner.’

‘Was he working for the Maltese?’ Barnard asked quickly. ‘They control most of the tarts in Soho.’

‘No, I don’t think the man I saw him with a couple of times was Maltese. He was called Ricky, a man called Ricky, who had a smart car, an Italian car. But every time I saw them in the club they seemed to be arguing.’

Barnard held his breath for a moment but said nothing about Ricky Smart’s death. ‘OK, that may be very useful,’ he said at length. ‘Running girls is not a major crime, even under-age girls, unless we can link Swift to Jenny Maitland’s murder, so I shouldn’t build your hopes too high. But it might buy you a bit of time if we can pin something on Swift and keep you here as a witness. The other thing that might help you is to prove you’re British and get a lawyer. You should be entitled to legal aid.’

‘I filled in the forms in my natural-born name,’ he said. ‘And signed them, of course, which tells Saprelli all he needs to know.’

Barnard sighed. If he was honest, he could see no way out for Abraham. ‘If you help us in court, if we ever get to court, I’ll do all I can,’ he said gloomily.

‘Sure you will,’ Abraham said, with no conviction at all.

Later, Barnard stood in a doorway outside the Valetta restaurant in Charlotte Street smoking his fifth cigarette on the trot and hoping he was not as conspicuous as he feared he was. He pulled the brim of his trilby down and his coat collar up, and waited, stamping his feet occasionally against the November chill. A muffled phone call at the nick – almost as soon as he had got back from seeing Abraham – from an anonymous caller who Barnard had no difficulty identifying as Joe Inglott, his Maltese informant, had told him that ‘the Man’ had returned to London and would be having lunch at the Valetta that day. When he had arrived at the restaurant soon after noon he had opened the door and taken a quick look round the interior where tables were set for lunch but very few were taken. He nodded to a couple of waiters lounging by the bar and went out again, content to wait until ‘the Man’, Frankie Falzon, turned up.

The Maltese, who controlled most of the prostitution in the square mile, did not often turn up in person in Soho. Barnard knew that he had a large luxurious house in Mill Hill and that he left the day-to-day running of his lucrative empire to lieutenants who were generally members of his own large family or trusted friends from the Mediterranean island. Something important must have brought him to the area for lunch and the sergeant wondered if it had anything to do with the two recent murders on his patch.

By the time a long American car pulled up right outside the restaurant door and deposited Falzon and a couple of heavyweight minders outside the door, and raised a cacophony of angry car horns behind, Barnard’s feet were frozen and the chill made it almost impossible to light his sixth cigarette. He watched and waited as the limo pulled away, allowing several irate taxi drivers free passage up the narrow street again. He did not move for a few more minutes to give Falzon time to settle himself at a table before he opened the door again and went in, pushing his hat to the back of his head, holding his warrant card in one hand but keeping his hands well away from his pockets.

Frankie Falzon was not a tall man, but broad and muscular, his tanned face shadowed even after what looked like a close shave and his dark hair just beginning to silver, certainly not a man with whom you would want to pick a fight on a dark night, Barnard thought, but so elegantly dressed in a dark suit with silvery tie that it was obvious he had no need to bloody his own hands any more. Barnard had met him before but never in a confrontational situation. Falzon had no criminal record in his adopted country and although a handful of his associates had been charged and a couple imprisoned for vice offences, Barnard assumed that their boss’s contributions to various police charities and individual senior officers’ pension arrangements, in the West End and at Scotland Yard, had until now protected him from legal embarrassment and would continue to do so unless the man was discovered by at least a dozen officers from another force
in flagrante delicto
with a murder weapon in his hand. And that, Barnard knew, was not going to happen any time soon.

He approached Falzon’s table slowly, the eyes of the two bodyguards watching his every move.

‘Mr Falzon,’ he said. ‘Detective Sergeant Barnard from Vice. Can I have a quick word with you.’

Falzon dark eyes flashed but after a second’s hesitation he waved Barnard into a chair. ‘Bring us a bottle of Chianti, and two glasses,’ he barked at a waiter. ‘You have five minutes before my guests arrive,’ he said to Barnard. ‘No more.’

Barnard did not waste any time. ‘We are concerned about the appearance of some very young girls on the streets in recent weeks,’ he said. ‘One of them was found dead, dumped like garbage behind the Jazz Cellar. This is something new, something we didn’t associate with your business operations. Can you shed any light on who’s putting them there?’

Falzon’s face darkened and Barnard was aware of the more aggressive stance of his minders. ‘I have been away,’ Falzon said. ‘Family business. I have just buried my mother. But I was told about these events when I came back. I have no idea yet who is organizing these intruders, but I intend to find out.’

Barnard waited patiently for a moment. ‘Are you worried about your relationship with Ray Robertson?’ he ventured.

‘Should I be?’ Falzon snapped back.

Barnard shrugged slightly.

‘He’s an old business acquaintance, as you obviously know,’ Falzon said. ‘He has seemed a little restless lately but I don’t suspect him of interfering with any of our previous arrangements.’ He shrugged. ‘What I think is that he has other ambitions. As for the girls on the street? I think this is more likely to be some newcomer who has not yet learned the rules.’

‘A man called Ricky Smart, maybe?’

But Falzon’s expression did not flicker.

‘Or Chris Swift?’

‘Them I don’t know,’ he said flatly. ‘I think maybe you should turn your attention to the Jazz Cellar, Sergeant Barnard, if that’s where the dead girl was found. That African music is not good for young people, it’s primitive, harmful. The church condemns it. That place might be more fruitful for your inquiries. I am told you are already taking an interest there.’ His eyes flickered to the door where several people were handing their coats to the
maitre d’.

Barnard nodded with only the faintest smile at hearing the most successful pimp in London complain about a style of music.

‘My guests are here now, Sergeant. I don’t think I can be of any more help to you.’

And with that Barnard had to be content.

Frustrated, he took his usual daily stroll around his manor, gleaning whatever he could from the motley collection of shopkeepers and bar and cafe owners who kept him posted about what was going on in the tangle of narrow streets between the big stores to the north and the theatre district to the south. Very little in the tangle of sex, entertainment and commerce which was Soho could be taken at face value and a copper here was only as good as his contacts. And Barnard reckoned he was very good. A judicious mixture of threats and bribes generally kept the information flowing in his direction and if contacts who felt grateful for his protection were moved to offer the odd thank-you present, who was he to complain.

He had a quick lunch at a pub in Wardour Street, glanced in at the open doors of the Jazz Cellar but could see no one except cleaners tidying up after the night before, and then strolled down west towards Berwick Street market which was crowded with eager shoppers as usual. Stepping cautiously round a pile of discarded vegetable debris which had spilled on to the pavement, he glanced down the alleyway where Andrei Lubin’s studio was situated and was surprised to see a figure he recognized going into the building.

‘Now what are you up to now, Katie, my sweet?’ he said to himself as he turned to follow. He caught up with her at the top of the last flight of stairs where they both stood for a moment catching their breath.

Kate flushed pink although Barnard was not sure whether it was the exertion or embarrassment that caused her blush.

‘Well, well, what are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a key?’

With the key Andrei had given her in Diss in her hand, she could hardly deny it. She nodded. She knew her cheeks were flaming, perhaps betraying something more than the embarrassment of being caught out. ‘I was going to come round to see you later,’ she said, still slightly breathless. ‘But I need to get some stuff I left here first. I didn’t want you lot taking my undeveloped films if you decided to search the place. I need them.’