September Song (22 page)

Charlie put the car into gear and smoothly pulled away from the curb, turning the car around so that we pulled alongside the Gaumont before turning left on Lea Bridge Road.

Jeannie Summers sat in complete silence until we were driving along Oxford Street.

‘Will you,' she said, ‘look for Lee for me?'

‘Of course I will,' I said. ‘I can't promise, mind.'

She nodded sadly. ‘This will be his last chance,' she said. ‘He has to sort himself out. I just can't take much more.' Then her
sangfroid
finally deserted her, and she wept. There was a quiet desperation about her tears, reflecting what must have been a very long hurt.

I reached into my pocket, recognizing that the clean handkerchief I'd so sensibly furnished myself with earlier wasn't going to be clean, or even in my possession, for very much longer. Ah, well! What were clean handkerchiefs for?

She sniffled her thanks as I handed it to her and then sniffled and snorted copiously straight into it. She wiped her eyes and tried to smile. I waved the soggy snot rag away when she offered it back. She held it tightly, squashing it into a small, wet ball.

As we passed Selfridges, she sighed deeply, and I could almost see the effort she put into getting her emotions under control before she leaned forward and quietly explained to Charlie more or less how to find the building she'd been staying in for the past week.

Charlie nodded his understanding and deftly executed a few left and right turns before pulling up outside a neat-looking red-brick building that I couldn't help thinking of as a mansion block. Though I couldn't for the life of me begin to put a meaning to those two words. It seemed to me that something was either a mansion or it wasn't. And this didn't look like a mansion to me. Still, it seemed to be the place Jeannie Summers was staying.

Charlie and I both helped her out of the car. I carried her suitcase for her to the door.

She held my hand for a moment or two and then kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then she opened her handbag, dropped my handkerchief in and took out a small notebook. She scribbled an address and two telephone numbers on a page, then tore it out and gave it to me.

‘That's the telephone number here –' she pointed at the house behind her – ‘and that's the number of the club in Glasgow we're supposed to be playing from Tuesday night. And that's our address in the US. Ring me when you know something.' She paused. ‘And write me sometime. I'd like to keep in touch.' She kissed me again and then turned towards the black front door behind her.

Charlie and I stood on the pavement and watched until she was safely inside.

‘What's that all about?' he said.

I shook my head. ‘It's a longish story, Charlie,' I said, ‘but I think I'm in love. Only with her voice, of course.'

He laughed. ‘She's a bit out of your league, Tone,' he said and jumped back in the car.

I knew he was right, of course, and I slipped into the passenger seat next to him. ‘Old Compton Street, James,' I said, sounding a lot more chipper than I felt.

There was no answer when I pressed the bell to Viv Laurence's gaff.

It didn't matter. The battered old door swung open when I gently put my hand against it.

I didn't hear any noise from the flat, and I peered into the gloomy hallway. ‘Miss Laurence,' I called quietly, but there was no reply.

Charlie clocked that the door was open and started to walk in, but I held my arm out in front of him and he stopped and looked at me. I put my finger to my lips and then pointed at him and then at the landing to indicate he should stay put. He nodded his understanding and took up a solid position two feet back from the door. The floorboards under the worn lino gave a little as he adjusted his position. He flexed his muscles and his jacket bulged slightly, like a bulkhead under pressure. He'd put on a bit of weight since he bought that suit.

I was reasonably sure the place was empty, but there was no point in taking any chances. Any whisper of trouble and Charlie would come swooping in. Well, lumbering might cover it a bit better, but he'd be no less effective for that.

I stepped into the quiet hall. There was a strong smell of perfume, so strong that it irritated the lining of my nose. For a few seconds I fought back a monstrous sneeze.

When I describe my flat as a mess, I mean that it's a bit untidy, could do with a clean and maybe a lick of paint. Viv Laurence's place was a mess of a completely different kind.

The living room was one of those comfortable rooms with what's often called the woman's touch. There were three cushions embroidered with cheerfully coloured flowers on the sofa, and another one on the armchair. There were tastefully crocheted antimacassars on the sofa and the armchair; there were vases of flowers on the mantelpiece and table. At least, that's where they would have been, if they hadn't all been scattered over the floor. The many knick-knacks that should have been artfully arranged on the mantelpiece, window ledge and sideboard were similarly distributed across the rucked-up carpet. I trod carefully around the broken glass, wondering if anyone used Macassar oil in these days of Brylcreem and Brilliantine.

In the bedroom, all the drawers had been taken from the tallboy and the contents had been dumped on the floor in poignant heaps. The thin, stained mattress was leaning against the wall, stripped of its sheet, which lay across the board at the head of the bed. The bed springs quivered suggestively when I stepped on a loose board in the middle of the room. A few photographs, letters and some official-looking documents lay about like litter. I noticed that she'd kept her ration card. A broken bottle of scent explained the overpowering smell.

‘Miss Laurence,' I called again, but I was sure she wasn't around.

I went into the little kitchen just in case, but there was no sign of her, just more evidence, in the tins of beans and soup that had been swept out of the cupboard, of unwelcome visitors.

I felt slightly guilty, and that made me angry. I strode out of the flat.

Charlie looked at me. ‘Trouble, Tone?' he said.

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘Change of plan, Charlie. We'll leave the car.'

I marched along to Frith Street with Charlie wheezing away behind me. That extra weight and the fags were slowing him down considerably. Still, he was the wrong side of fifty and so wasn't doing too badly for an old buffer.

The Acropolis was closed for business, but I was sure I could see people in there.

I took the steps down to Pete's Place four at a time, leaving Charlie to follow me as best he could.

A bleary-eyed, broom-wielding Bill stopped his sweeping and looked up suspiciously until he saw it was me and he nodded amiably enough. ‘Help you, Tony?' he said.

‘Is it all right if we go out through the back, Bill?' I said. ‘I'd like a word with some of the blokes upstairs, and I'd quite like to surprise them.'

‘Course,' he said. ‘It's not locked. Never is.'

I walked past him, but he called after me.

‘Want some backup?' he said.

‘That'd be good,' I said, working on the old maxim that two old bruisers were better than one.

I stormed through the kitchen, ex-pugilists trailing in my wake, eliciting the same lack of interest as before from the same grease-stained kitchen hands who were still sucking on cigarettes, and into the restaurant.

Gratifyingly, Mr Fitz was sitting at his usual table. It hadn't occurred to me until then that he might not always be there, that he might have a home in Highgate or Kensington with a wife and kiddies and a garden that he tended lovingly. Less gratifyingly, Harold, Stanley, Malcolm and two other thugs were gathered around him. They tensed when they saw me. I was happy to hear Charlie and Bill clump into the room.

I pushed past Stanley, leaned across the table and stared at James Fitzgerald. ‘Where is she?' I said.

He swayed back a few inches, against the plush dark-green upholstery. ‘I'm sorry, Tony,' he said, forcing a smile, ‘but you will have to be more explicit than that. To whom are you referring?'

‘You know perfectly well,' I said.

‘I'm afraid that I don't,' he said. ‘Now, why don't you sit down, calm down and tell me all about it? Can I offer you some refreshment?'

‘No,' I said. ‘Just tell me what you've done with Viv Laurence.'

‘I'm at something of a loss,' he said. ‘I'm afraid I really don't know who you're talking about, and, I have to say, I am rather fed up with you barging in here in what I can only think of as a most pugnacious manner. I'm toying with the idea of asking my colleagues here to teach you some manners.'

I straightened up, and there was a long silence while we all sized each other up. Harold took a step towards me, and even Malcolm had the kind of grim expression on his face that suggested he wouldn't mind having a swing.

‘But I'm not going to do that,' Mr Fitz said. ‘Just yet.'

His thugs froze.

‘Now,' he continued, ‘just who are you looking for?'

‘Viv Laurence,' I said. ‘She's—'

‘A tuppenny ha'penny tart,' Malcolm said.

‘Hush, Malcolm,' Mr Fitz said. ‘Tony has the floor.'

‘Sorry, Mr Fitz,' the big man said.

‘Go on, Tony,' Fitzgerald said.

‘She's disappeared from her gaff,' I said. ‘I was just round there, and the place has been comprehensively turned over. If it wasn't your boys looking for the “goods” that you think Lee the piano player took and stowed there, then who was it?'

‘That's a good question, Tony,' he said. ‘Malcolm, Harold, have you been there looking for anything?'

They both shook their heads. ‘No, Mr Fitz,' they chorused.

‘Do you know if anyone else has?'

There was a general shaking of heads.

Mr Fitz held out his hands in a gesture that in French would say ‘
désolé
' and shrugged. ‘You see, Tony,' he said, ‘we can't help you.'

I knew they were all laughing at me, and I wasn't having it.

I leaned over his table again. ‘James,' I said very quietly, ‘someone here is telling me untruths, and I don't like that. Let me ask them. Individually. And I think I'll start with Malcolm.'

‘Don't you think you've damaged Malcolm enough? He tells me his ankle is very sore.' He paused. ‘I assume you have physical coercion in mind.'

We stared at each other in silence again. I don't know what he was thinking, but I was remembering an incident in France. Robert was convinced that he had tracked down a German informer in a small group of Breton
maquisards
that we had occasionally worked with. The commander of that group – an oily creep with, according to Robert, extreme right-wing views – refused to countenance the possibility. After some fruitless discussion, Robert smiled and made a few placatory remarks, then, as we left, he shot the man in the head. The
maquisards
were so shocked that they did nothing. We never went on a joint operation with them again.

I've often wondered if the
type
had been an informer.

‘We appear to have reached an
impasse
,' Fitzgerald finally said.

‘No, we haven't,' I said. ‘We're still talking.' I'm nowhere near as ruthless or decisive as Robert. Or as effective.

Fitzgerald thoughtfully rubbed his nose with a finger. ‘I'll tell you what,' he said. ‘Forget this –' he waved his hand around airily – ‘fanciful vendetta stuff with my entirely innocent colleagues, and I'll put out some feelers. I'll probably know something in an hour. In the meantime, you could stroll around Soho Square.' He smiled. ‘Take in the sights.'

I'd been wrong. We hadn't been talking, we'd been negotiating. And, what's more, I just might have gained a small concession. I wasn't sure why.

I glanced at my watch. The Frighted Horse would be open in a few minutes.

I nodded. ‘Thank you, James,' I said. ‘I'd appreciate that. An hour then?'

‘An hour should do it. Malcolm seems to know the girl, judging by his less than flattering description.'

He should do, I thought. She
is
one of yours.

I turned to leave.

‘Tony,' he said, ‘If I were you, I'd be a bit more careful where you put that face of yours. Those are nasty bruises. They quite mar your handsome
visage
.'

I left the restaurant and entered the kitchen to the sound of quiet chuckling. But I rather doubted that Stanley and Harold knew what they were laughing at.
Visage
was unlikely to figure much in their vocabulary.

FOURTEEN

C
harlie and I left Bill at Pete's Place and walked at a sedate place towards the Frighted Horse. Charlie was spitting nails on my behalf. He really is a lovely bloke – what the criminal fraternity would call a diamond geezer. I don't think he had understood much of what went on. He just didn't think they should laugh at me. Charlie thinks that because I have an Oak Leaf and a couple of campaign medals tucked underneath the shirts in my chest of drawers I'm some sort of war hero.

Not that Charlie hadn't done his bit. He'd been a fireman from the start, which meant during the Blitz. Now those blokes really were heroes. I saw some of the fires in 1940. And I've seen the newsreels.

A couple of small kids were hammering an old, ragged football against a wall. The ball was in dire need of the ministrations of a bicycle pump and hardly bounced when it hit the ground, but they were giving it a fair old leathering. Their mothers wouldn't be too happy with them kicking the toes out of their shoes. They stopped their game politely to allow us past. Though, on reflection, politeness may have had nothing to do with it. A hard hand administered to the back of the head leads to wariness and sullen obedience rather than courtesy. Still, I nodded my thanks to them, anyway.