Kiss Me Quick (30 page)

Bobbie wanted to get him back on the case. ‘Do you still think Jack has anything to do with all this?’ she prodded. ‘The dirty films … the girls?’

Vince didn’t even acknowledge the question. He was caught up in the patterns he was making in the egg yolk, and probably more concerned with the age-old question of ‘chicken or egg?’ than Jack Regent’s activities.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

His reply was mumbled, listless. ‘Who knows.’

‘
You’re
the detective.’

He shrugged, and carried on staring down at his plate.

Bobbie dropped her knife and fork on her own plate with an attention-getting clatter.

They were the only ones in the café, so it was left to the two waitresses behind the counter to watch the good-looking young couple as the blonde slapped the dark-haired man around the face. The blow was struck with such power and velocity that they were surprised to see him ride it, then look almost grateful for it.

Vince raised his left hand to his face, and ran fingertips over his hot, numbed cheek; more to check that the cheek was still there than to soothe it. He looked at Bobbie. Her back was ramrod straight, her head cocked. There was a defiant, challenging look to her normally soft features. He’d already been slapped around the chops by Bobbie so many times during the night that he seemed resigned to it. Then, she’d only done it to stop him slipping into sleep and therefore the great void, the Big Nod. As for now, she’d done it to stop him slipping away from himself, slipping out of his identity as a detective. Maybe that was the thing she loved about him most, maybe not, but he wasn’t going to take the chance.

He knew that Bobbie wanted Detective Vincent Treadwell back because he was strong, smart, resourceful and therefore could look after her now that Jack was gone. And because he could be all those things, and because he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman before, he now did what he had to do.

He took two slices of toast, two sausages, two rashers of bacon, a disc of black pudding, a handful of chips, a dollop of ketchup, a dollop of brown sauce, and built himself a gut-busting sandwich. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and took as big a bite as he could manage. Then worked his jaws for what seemed an eternity, and swallowed, before washing it down with several big glugs of black coffee. He put his plate to one side, took a
toothpick
and stuck it in his mouth, then folded his arms on the table. Finally, he faced her, ready for business.

‘Jack must know about the dirty films?’ Rhetorical, but Bobbie nodded anyway. ‘First off,
dirty
. These films are beyond
dirty
. They’re degenerate, OK?’

Bobbie nodded.

Vince manoeuvred the toothpick around his mouth with his tongue, and moved back into the mindset of a copper. ‘Did Jack say anything about retiring?’ he asked. ‘About getting out of the game?’

‘Jack’s guarded. It wasn’t chit-chat like with the boys.’

‘Boys?’

Bobbie let out a sigh, as if she’d been caught out. ‘Yeah, you know, Jack was an older man. He was more like a …’ Her voice trailed off.

Vince stepped in and finished it, ‘Like a father?’

She turned away from him, and thoughtlessly went about
pressing
her thumbnail into the plastic tablecloth, leaving a series of crescent-shaped imprints. She stopped vandalising the tablecloth after Vincent gave an admonishing cough.

‘OK, Henry Pierce runs the operation along with Duval and Eton. He provides the
security
,’ said Vince. ‘It’s a euphemism for dirty work – and, in a dirty business like the one they’re running, that can get pretty dirty.’

‘And your friend, Eddie Tobin.’

‘Forget Tobin.’ Vince gave a quick, dismissive shake of his head. ‘Whatever he thinks he is, he’s just a messenger. An ex-copper on the make who they’d never make a real partner. I think Henry Pierce is the answer. My guess is that Jack didn’t know about the films.’

‘That was my guess, too!’

He smiled. ‘It’s called team work. The team does the work, and the ones with the higher rank gets the credit.
Team work
.’

She smiled.

‘Your guess, that he didn’t know about the films, I agree with. Or, if he did know, he wasn’t happy about it, and maybe that’s Jack’s problem. He’s made his money, wanted an easier life, then found love and wanted to settle down.’

They locked eyes. She won and stared him down.

‘Or just wanted a quiet life,’ ceded Vince. ‘But you can’t have a quiet life in this game. You’re like a shark – stop moving and you’re dead.’

‘You think they killed Jack?’

Vince weighed it up. ‘Doubtful … but they might have wanted him out of the way so they could carry on the operation
without
hindrance.’ Vince took in a long breath, then let it out in a wistful sigh. He wasn’t satisfied with his own analysis. ‘Jack’s smart, therefore why not let Pierce have a racket for himself and keep him happy? And Jack being Jack, why would he be opposed to that if it brought money in?’

Vince watched as Bobbie chewed this over. He handed her a toothpick. She, too, stuck it in her mouth and worked it around her lips with her tongue, resting her folded arms on the table. Sitting opposite, both deep in reflection, they were now mirror images of each other.

‘And that’s the reason,’ said Vince, ‘that Jack might not have wanted anything to do with the films. He didn’t want it
interfering
with his new venture – his big-money venture. The one that would get him back in favour with his homeland and the Unione Corse. Heroin!’

Bobbie smiled, realizing he was back on track. ‘So, Henry Pierce set Jack up with the …?’

‘With the body of the man I killed.’

She shook her head and spat out, ‘Not true!’ jabbing a finger in his chest. ‘We don’t know that.’

Vince smiled at Bobbie. She was no longer primarily
defending
Jack or his reputation – she was on Vince’s side one hundred per cent. He was beginning to believe all that corny stuff he’d heard about the love of a good woman. ‘
We?
Are you my new partner, Detective LaVita?’

‘Drinkwater. Detective Drinkwater. It sounds better … and I’d never thought I’d say that.’

‘OK, Pierce took a knife that Jack had used on a past victim. It would be easy for him because that’s what Pierce did: he cleared up Jack’s messes. So, he had a stashed knife with Jack’s prints all over it, took off the victim’s head and the hands to stop it being identified.’

Bobbie looked down at her plate, where her fork lay,
skewering
bacon and black pudding, and covered in ketchup.

Vince saw Bobbie’s uneasiness and, as she pushed her plate away, he rustled up a mischievous grin. ‘Not so much fun now, is it: the nitty-gritty of murder?’

She returned his challenging look and said, ‘I can handle it. Does Pierce know about you and …?’

‘Killing the projectionist?’

‘We don’t
know
that.’

Vince shrugged the smallest shrug available to him. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t you ask Tobin?’

Vince pulled a wry smile. ‘You’re forgetting my friend, Mickey Finn. I was groggy, not at my best, but I’m guessing Duval would have kept shtum. A copper in your pocket is a precious
commodity
that he can draw on any time he needs to. Duval and Tobin wouldn’t have told a nut job like Pierce how the
projectionist
died. Pierce was merely in the disposal business.’ Vince let out a sour little laugh. ‘The poor bastard.’

‘Who?’

‘The projectionist. They certainly got their money’s worth out of him. Duval uses him to set me up. Then Pierce uses him to set Jack up.’

All through this, Vince held on to the wry smile, till it was fixed to his face like wall cladding. But Bobbie saw through it to the anguish on the other side. She gathered up both his hands in hers, squeezed them and said, ‘Let’s stick with what we know, Vincent. And I know Henry Pierce isn’t smart enough to outfox Jack.’

‘Maybe not, but Max Vogel might be, and Pierce looked to me like he was taking his orders from him.’

Bobbie puckered her brow. ‘I’m not buying it. Henry Pierce
loved
Jack – that’s the only word for it. He would do anything for him. He didn’t like me, not because I’d done anything to hurt him, but just because I got close to Jack. Or maybe closer than any other woman had ever got to him. It was jealousy, and I told Jack that once. He laughed, but he admitted it was true. I’m not saying Henry was queer for Jack, but he did love him.’

Vince gave a slow contemplative nod as he recalled Pierce’s performance in the interview room, and his belief that Jack was either god or godless, the binary opposites that held equal power for Henry Pierce.

‘Betraying Jack doesn’t seem right to me, either,’ said Vince. ‘So you flip it. If that’s the way it looks, maybe it looks that way because that’s the way they want you to see it. Jack wants us to think he’s finished. He wants us to think he’s skipped town, retired to Corsica or wherever.’

Bobbie felt a cold chill. ‘You think he’s still here?’

Vince saw the fear backing up the question.

They went arm in arm as they walked out to sea. Or at least as far as the Palace Pier would take them. Past the fortune-teller’s booth, the candyfloss concession, the fishing gear shop, the ghost train, the man setting out the deckchairs. Bobbie recognized the man who managed the arcade unlocking the doors for the day’s trade. She smiled at him in acknowledgment, but he scowled and turned away when he saw her arm in arm with Vince.

‘Who’s that?’ Vince asked.

‘His name’s Albert. He works for Jack.’

Vince glanced back at the man now walking into the arcade – lined with one-armed bandits, pinball, lucky dips and penny logs. Soon the place would be full of tourists putting their money into the machines, Jack’s machines, Jack’s pockets. You couldn’t escape this town without paying tribute to Jack.

‘Get used to it,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘People turning away from you.’

‘Doesn’t bother me.’

Vince could see that it did bother her. And more so now after Vince had suggested that Jack hadn’t left town.

‘Anyway, it’s a moot point,’ she said.

‘Why?’

Bobbie stopped walking, turned to face him and said, ‘Because after you’ve cleared your name, you’re going away from here, and I’m coming with you.’

‘It sounds like you’ve made your mind up.’

‘I have.’

‘Do I have any say in it?’

‘Not really. It’s a done deal, signed, sealed and delivered.’ She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

‘Do you always get what you want?’

‘Pretty much, these days. So you best be careful, because 1964 is a leap year. I could ask you to marry me.’

‘Pick your moment and your scenery carefully. We could be anywhere we want to be by next week.’

They walked on until they reached the end of the pier. There they leaned over the rail and looked down at the black sea
breaking
around the barnacled iron girders, the spume leaping up to greet them.

‘Legend has it there’s a monster living down there, a thirty-foot Moray eel,’ said Vince, staring into the black swell. He considered further this childhood exaggeration, then gathered up some spit in his mouth and let a slow gob fall into the sea below.

‘Vincent!’ She dug an elbow into his arm.

He gave her a mischievous grin. ‘Everyone does it.’

‘If you’re
ten
years old.’

Bobbie leaned forward over the railing and spat, too. They stood spitting into the sea, watching those tiny flecks of themselves get swallowed up, until the clouds that had been gathering and darkening since they had stepped on to the pier burst open, and the gods spat back down on them.

They ran for cover.

Vince stood before a large black oriental-style wardrobe that took up almost one entire side of the room. It was inlaid with silver wire and mother-of-pearl depicting exotic birds and insects. It was definitely top quality, not the knock-off stuff that Vogel was importing and peddling. Inside was a selection of Jack Regent’s suits, shirts and ties. Like the wardrobe that contained them, the clothes were all top quality.

‘Take your pick. You’re about his size,’ said Bobbie, who was standing behind him.

Vince’s suit was a mess, crumpled, creased and carrying the sweat and strain of a long night.

‘I’ll go and get ready,’ she said, leaving Vince to make a choice.

Vince eyed the suits lined up. He ran the back of his hand along their sleeves, making them ripple like keys on a piano. Shelves of laundered shirts, displayed like candy in a sweetshop, every colour available, stripes, check, different collar-and-cuff combinations; all hand-made Egyptian cotton from Jermyn Street. The suits were bespoke, run up by a tailor in Hong Kong: cashmere, fine wool, summer suits in linen and silk blend. Midnight-blue, Prince of Wales check, pin-stripe and chalk-stripe, shimmering sharkskin. Whatever else Vince thought about Jack, his taste was impeccable. And it all fitted him.

An hour later and Bobbie was ready. She’d soaked herself in a hot bath, got dressed again and painted her face and nails.

Vince had selected a midnight-blue suit, a powder-blue shirt, and a slim black knitted tie with subtle thin silver stripes woven through it. The shirt was monogrammed, and so was the
handkerchief
for his top pocket. Vince thought about the thief, Murray the Head, not wanting his name displayed on everything. Jack was different, however; he put his mark on the things he owned. Vince thought it strange at first that there were no shoes anywhere in the room, then he remembered Jack’s disfigurement – the club foot. But even if the shoe did fit, so to speak, whilst he had no great compunction about wearing Jack’s clothes, there was something about walking around in another man’s shoes that just didn’t feel right.

‘You look great.’

Vince turned around to see Bobbie, who was wearing that turquoise silk dress, her mother’s dress, with the brooch of the mythical bird. Vince was surprised to find her wearing it –
knowing
that there was a room in the apartment solely devoted to storing her clothes. It was probably crammed with expensive outfits.

‘So do you.’

Three hours later they sat in a Wimpy Bar and ate Knickerbocker Glories. It had been a meal promised, and a date long overdue. Dressed to the nines, as they were, Vince had wanted to take her somewhere classy like Wheeler’s, Prompt Corner or the Metropole, but Bobbie had visited these places with Jack, always getting the best table even if someone was already sitting there, and had the stodgy, genuflecting waiters fawn over them with a startling servility that made Bobbie uneasy. She wanted the brightly lit Wimpy Bar with its vinyl-buttoned booths and Formica tables, and its wholesome American hamburgers,
multistorey
desserts with fan-shaped wafers and topped with chocolate and strawberry sauces, refreshing milkshakes served in tall glasses with a dirty joke waiting for you when you reached the end – for the bottom of the glass was stamped ‘Duralex’, and that sounded like a French letter.

As for the film, Vince had wanted to see
From Russia With Love,
but it was sold out. Bobbie wanted to see
Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow
with Sophia Loren and subtitles, but Vince argued that if he wanted to read, he’d go to the library.
A Shot in the Dark
, a comedy with Peter Sellers about a bumbling detective, was also playing, but Vince didn’t fancy that, and
Zulu
with Stanley Baker and some new young actor. Bobbie had met Stanley Baker last year in the Astor Club in London, where he’d bought her and Jack a bottle of champagne, and told her this young blond actor was going to be big; meanwhile she’d forgotten his name. It was all enough to put Vince off that film, too. Bobbie thought Laurence Harvey was a dish, and wanted to see
Of Human Bondage
; but he was acting his socks off playing a man with a club foot, so that was a no-no. They settled on
The Fall of the Roman Empire
. It seemed to play out in real time, too, for by the time Rome eventually fell, Vince had himself fallen asleep.

So they left it early and went to a pub that Bobbie liked, by the Theatre Royal, knowing none of Jack’s crowd would be there. In the upstairs, not so public, bar, the crowd was made up of queers and dykes and artist types. A black drag queen with the best legs Vince had ever seen was singing Eartha Kitt. ‘She’ invited Bobbie up to sing, and Bobbie joined him in a duet. They got chatting to a couple of theatrical types named Hugh and Dennis. They said Vince and Bobbie looked like a couple of film stars. When pushed, Vince had to admit he was a copper. Hugh and Dennis took that in their stride, and told him Brighton was full of ‘Piers, queers and racketeers’. Vince bought them a drink.

As soon as Bobbie had twirled the key in the lock and they entered the flat, the phone started to ring. They looked at each other, and just let it ring. Neither wanted to answer it. It had broken the spell of their first date, during which time they had avoided all talk of the intrigue, deception and uncertainty that was uncontrollably spinning around them. They had talked about everything else a young couple might talk about on a first date. For, even though they had already been through so much, and been forced to reveal themselves so completely, they needed to catch up on the normal stuff. The frivolous stuff. Favourite books, films, music, first kisses, funny stories. There was an element of play-acting about it, mixing in with all the other dates waiting in line at the cinema; walking arm in arm along the street; being complimented by Hugh and Dennis; sitting in a booth at the Wimpy Bar. As with most young couples in love, there was a conceit about them. They knew they looked good together. Their bodies seemed to fit effortlessly, like missing pieces in a
jigsaw
puzzle finally put together and showing all the world what a dazzling picture it made. From an outsider’s point of view, they looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

And from the point of view of the man inside the black car who had followed them from destination to destination, and finally back to Adelaide Crescent, it looked just the same: not a care in the world …

The phone kept on ringing relentlessly, and seemingly getting louder and louder like an alarm. It demanded to be picked up, wouldn’t take no for an answer. They both knew that once the call was answered, their ‘date’ was over.

Bobbie picked up the receiver, just to stop the noise, but left it hovering over its cradle. She looked up at Vince for guidance. He gave her the nod, and she put the phone to her ear and said, ‘Hello …’

The caller refused to give his name, but Bobbie knew who it was. And so did Vince, by the look of contempt that crossed her face. He darted over to the phone and grabbed the receiver out of her hand.

‘Vaughn!’