Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1) (6 page)

              “Dancing.”

              “Spying.”

              “Do you know that for certain?”

              Carruthers gave a sigh. “Nothing is certain in this line of work, but we strongly suspect. So what have you found out?”

              “You know Johnson got Ramona a flat?”

              “What?” Carruthers sat bolt upright.

Nick shook his head.              “And you were keeping tabs on both of them.”

Carruthers was already reaching for his notebook. “Where?”

              “Relax. Someone’s already been there. That’s where I went tonight after the club. The place had been turned over good and proper. I had another look myself; there’s nothing there. You search her main flat?”

              “Of course.”

              “You find anything?”

Carruthers shook his head. “I’m going to need that address, Nick.”

“Ground floor, fifteen Conway Street, but you’re wasting your time.”

“Maybe, but I’ll be the judge of that. What else?”

“I told the Brigadier that Ramona was dead. He didn’t know. Then I told him to leave; he was attracting the attention of the two men your tail saw running out.”

“Anything else?”

Nick shrugged. “That was it. I searched the flat then came home.”

Carruthers stared at him. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. So what do you want me to do now? Are we done?”

Carruthers stood and moved, pushing his face into Nick’s. “No, we are not done. You’re still officially a suspect in the murder of Ramona. I’ve got no leads here. My men can’t even get into the clubs you patronise, the ones that they can find. I know about all your illicit dens and late-night spots; what I don’t know is who goes there or why, and what they might be up to. You’re useful. I need you as my eyes and ears, and I need you to keep digging.”

“Why not just pull in the Germans and the Italians?”

“Because I’ve got nothing to go on. They’d wriggle free and then they’d know I was on to them. I need more and I need to know what they’re doing.”

“How long are you going to keep me doing this?”

“As long as I like,” sneered Carruthers and Nick had to fight an impulse to punch the man.

A tense silence stretched between them, broken by the sound of a key in the lock. Clara strode into the room, her face a mask of fury. She checked herself as she saw Carruthers; surprise then shock flicked across her face, before it settled into a forced smile that convinced no one.

“Sorry I didn’t realise you had company,” she said.

“Mr Carruthers was just leaving,” Nick replied, steering the man with a firm grip on his elbow.

Carruthers, for his part, was staring intently at Clara. “Yes, I was, Miss…?”

“De Vere.”

“I see. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He turned to Nick. “Interesting company you keep.”

Nick shoved the man’s hat into his arms and pulled him to the front door. Nick was tired, and tired of Carruthers and his barbed statements and supposition. “One last thing,” Nick said as he opened the front door. “What is Brigadier Johnson working on?”

Carruthers paused by the door and looked as if he was about to say something, then his eyes drifted past Nick. Nick half turned his head. Clara was standing down the hall watching the two of them. He turned back to Carruthers, who gave a slight smile.

“No idea and nothing for you to concern yourself with. Good night.” He topped his hat at Clara over Nick’s shoulder, turned and clomped down the stairs.

Nick stood at the door until he heard the front door slam shut. He was all too aware of Clara’s silently boiling fury behind him. He mentally braced himself and turned with a conciliatory smile. It was time to face the music.

CHAPTER 6

Clara didn’t stay. Nick had endured a whirlwind of accusation and ire that he’d sat stoically through. After she’d blown away into the rising dawn, he washed and lay down on the bed. He must have dozed, because the nightmares awoke him in a cold sweat around ten. It was probably the longest sleep he’d had in days.

              He shaved and washed again, knocked up a Bloody Mary to stave off the dull thud of the hangover beginning to press at the fringes of his temples and sat quietly in an armchair, the mid-morning sunlight throwing dappled shapes across the carpet. He didn’t have a lot to go on, but he had more than Carruthers, and that thought pleased him. At least he knew what the stakes were, and probably most of the players. What nagged at him, though, was why Ramona had only those prints; where were the negatives? How had she got them developed? And what did the list of names mean?

              Inspiration came after the second Bloody Mary. If you knew where to look in Soho you could get almost anything – uppers, downers, opium, cocaine; hell, that was still everywhere despite the Act. You could also get dirty magazines or just buy dirty pictures. There was a whole underground enterprise built and growing around creating and supplying titillating shots of nude models, if you knew where to look. Nick knew where to look.

              Roberto Corleno ran a bookshop on the Charing Cross Road, full of rare first editions and dusty prints. A small bell tinkled as Nick walked in. An old man browsed some tomes in the corner while Roberto, all five foot four of him, beamed at Nick from behind the counter.

              “Hey, Nick, long time no see. How’s things?” Roberto was already out from behind the counter slapping Nick heartily on the back, his thick Italian-American accent already spitting words faster than Nick could make out. “You are after some new books? Some reading materials? Whaddya looking for, Nick? History? Science? Art?” He winked at the last one.

              “No books today, Roberto.” He steered the man away from the other customer and lowered his voice. “I’m looking for somewhere I can get some pictures developed.”

              “You tried the chemist?” laughed Roberto.

              “These aren’t the kind of pictures you take to the chemist, Roberto.” He smiled conspiratorially and was rewarded with a nudge from Roberto.

              “Oh you going into business, Mr Valentine? Or this some personal pleasure? Hey you know a lot of them girls from The Blue Rose, eh? Oh my, Nick, please tell me. I’d love to see those.” He was rubbing his hands together in glee.

              “You’re on the right lines. Maybe if they turn out all right I could get you some copies.” Nick looked around furtively and moved closer. “Maybe we could sell some from here.”

              “I’m always on the lookout for new stuff; the market is really demanding these days. It’s crazy. I think it’s the Depression. People are going mad for this stuff. Guess they can’t afford the real thing anymore.”

              “That right? Well, okay, I’ll keep that in mind. So where can I get this stuff developed? It needs to be real discreet, Roberto, real discreet.”

              Roberto’s forehead creased in deep lines beneath his gloss of black curls as he thought hard. He moved back to the counter and beckoned Nick over. “Okay, there’s a few guys, but some of them are bums. They’re not so honest, Nick, making extra copies, selling them on, ripping people off. I don’t send you there, Nick. There’s two guys who are straight up. They cost more, but that’s ’cause they’re not taking an extra prints, and they don’t say nothing. Even I don’t know who they deal with, unless I sent ’em myself.” He scribbled on a piece of paper with a stub of pencil and pushed it towards Nick. “Go see either then lose that paper.”

              “Thanks, Roberto, you’ve been a big help.”

              “No problem. Hey, Nick, seeing as you’re here, I can’t interest you?”

Nick looked down at the counter. From underneath some botanic prints, Roberto had slid the edge of a racy magazine. He had his other hand open on the counter.

              “Sure, why not. You’ve been a big help. How much?”

              “Two shillings.”

              Nick gave a low whistle, dropped three in the man’s hand and palmed the magazine into his coat pocket. “That’s for the info, Roberto. I’ll consider the magazine a present.”

              “Of course,” beamed Roberto. “It’s not illegal to give presents – not yet!” He gave Nick another pat on the back and scurried over to his other customer as Nick left the stuffy air of the bookshop behind.

              Nick crossed the road and ducked through the passageway next to the Pillars of Hercules pub, bringing him back into Soho proper. He looked at the addresses. One was right around the corner, a basement in Greek Street. The other… His heart leapt. The other was on Bolsover Street, just round the corner from the Brigadier and Ramona’s love nest. He already had a gut feeling which one would be right, but he should check the closest one. In the event, the decision was made for him. There was no reply to the bell and when he pushed on the door, it was locked. He’d have to come back, if he got no lead at Bolsover Street.

              The first pangs of hunger were beginning to play in his stomach, so he stopped at the Yorkshire Grey on Great Titchfield Street for a quick pint and a sandwich. The wood-panelled pub was quiet; a gloomy looking publican stood idly polishing the glasses, while a handful of drinkers sat quietly around the pub as if they were making a conscious effort to avoid each other. Nick drank and ate in silence and hated it. He knew it would be totally different within a few hours as the after-work crowd filtered in. Right now he felt washed up, one of the aimless and unemployed, drinking away last night’s hangover in solitude. He didn’t like the feeling, even though that was what he had become. It hadn’t bothered him so much before, but now, for the first time in a long time, he felt he had a purpose, however obtuse, and it rankled him that he was sat here so out of sync with the rest of the working world.

It took him less than five minutes to walk to the address. Another basement flat. Nick looked up and down the road: lines of residential buildings, the perfect place for a business like this. He rang the bell and a frail, furtive-looking, old man cracked open a chained door. He looked at Nick suspiciously over the top of small, wireless glasses, his eyes squinting in the daylight, a wisp of grey hair covering an age-mottled scalp. He wore a rubber apron and rubberized arm guards over an old blue shirt, and Nick could just make out one brown-slippered foot. Seeing the man, he was tempted to shoulder the door down, but decided he’d try the friendly approach first.

              “What do you want?” rasped the old man, initiating a fit of coughing. Now the door was open Nick’s nose detected the faint smell of developing chemicals.

              Nick smiled kindly. “Hello, Mr Aviv, Roberto told me you might be able to help me with some photographic development?”

              The old man frowned at Nick. “Roberto sent you?”

Nick nodded and was relieved to hear the old man start rattling the door chain off.

“Okay, come in, come in, quickly!” he said irritably, slamming the door shut behind Nick.

              The flat was dark, a small red bulb glowed dully in the hall light fitting with no shade and all the doors off were shut. The old man scuttled forward, muttering to himself and led Nick into a parlour. It stank of chemicals. Washing lines ran across the ceiling off the room at all angles; hundreds of photos hung clipped to them. Nick stopped and stared; there were naked women, men, women and men, women and women, men and men… The old man prodded him hard in the stomach.

              “No looking! No touching!” he screeched.

Another door led off this dimly lit room. Nick figured it must be the developing room.

“Where is this film?” The man held out a wizened claw.

              “You’ve already developed it.”

              “What?”

              “You heard. Take a seat.” Nick suddenly shoved the old man hard so that he fell back, sprawled onto the low sofa. He let out a cry of shock and pain. He began to kick his scrawny legs to scrabble upright but Nick was already on top of him. He pushed the man back down with one hand.

              “Get out! Get out!” the old man screamed.

Nick slapped him hard across the face. The man’s glasses went flying and he was suddenly still and quiet.

              “That’s better. Mr Aviv, I’m not here to hurt you. I just need some information.”

              “You are a fool. I am protected. You can’t muscle in here like this.” The old man looked at him with rheumy eyes, but Nick could see the fear behind the bluster.

              “Maybe. But I’m in here now. Look, I work with the police; they’d love to know about this place. I can have them down here in minutes. Some of these pictures, though, maybe I’ll have a word to a fellow I know at the British Union of Fascists; they’d like to know about you and this place. How long was it since you were run out of … where? Poland?” Nick hazarded a guess based on the man’s accent and saw he’d been right.

              “I’m saying nothing. The police, they won’t do nothing. You go. I don’t want trouble.” He was trying to sound bold, but his reedy voice wavered.

              “Don’t kid yourself. You’re looking at jail time for this, and they’ll sweat you, then some of your customers will be wanting to speak to you, that’s if they don’t decide to get you shut up in custody before you can sing. I’ll come to the point. You developed some pictures for a lady, right?” Nick saw the flash of recognition in the man’s eyes. There wouldn’t be too many broads in this side of the business. “Good, okay, we’re getting somewhere. She was Spanish, went by the name Ramona – black hair, good looking, nice clothes, just nod if you know who I’m talking about.”

The man swallowed and gave a nod.

“Okay, listen, you’re not going to be ratting anyone out, but you may be helping yourself. Ramona is dead.” Nick waited for this to sink in. He could see the man’s fear growing.

              “Oh my God…” muttered the man.

              “She was murdered. Now she had some photos in her possession, photos she may have been killed for, photos other people will be looking for, people who killed her and will think nothing of killing you.”

The old man nodded.

“I need to know everything about those photos then I might be able to stop these people.”

              “I can’t. My reputation–”

              “Will be a dead man’s reputation. You might be the only chance she has for seeing justice done and for stopping these people.”

              Mr Aviv wiped a hand across his brow. “Okay, I tell you, but you tell no one, and you tell no one I told you. Deal?” The man held out a gnarled hand. Bemused, Nick took it.

              “Deal.”

              “She came here, maybe three days ago, said she had a film she wanted developed, shots of herself and a friend, said she was looking to break into the business. A nice-looking girl. I told her to go and come back, but she said no. She was shy. As it was her first time she wanted to stay and see the process, make sure there were no copies. I don’t normally work like that, but she was a sweet girl.”

              “Go on.”

              “She had a single roll of film.” The man stopped and swallowed then shook his head.

              “What?”

              “The pictures. There were only a few on the whole roll. I noticed this straight away, told her something had gone wrong, she didn’t seem bothered, just told me to continue.”

              “How many sets did you make?”

              “Just one. She only wanted one.”

              “And what was on the film?” The man swallowed hard again.

              “If I had known, I would never… I don’t want to get mixed up in this. This is my business.” He gestured around the pornography hanging all over his room. “Not spying.”

              “Spying?”

              “It was photos of documents, British military documents.”

              “How many pictures?”

              “I don’t know. Five or six.”

              “About what specifically?”

              “Didn’t you hear me?” The man’s voice rose. “I don’t want to know about it. I saw what it was, I didn’t read it, I cursed her, said I would destroy them. Then she pulled a gun! A woman with a gun! Can you believe it?” Old Aviv was incredulous. Nick could believe it.

              “So you made four prints, each of a page of document?”

The man nodded.

“What about the negatives?”

              “She took them, stuffed the lot in her bag, apologised for the gun and paid me five pounds! Five pounds! Can you believe it?” He chuckled, but the smile faded. “I knew trouble would come, though. I knew it. Now look.” He shot a baleful look at Nick.

              “Did she say anything else? About the pictures, where she got them, what she was doing with them? Did she have a camera?”