September Song (25 page)

They all looked sullen and decidedly disagreeable.

‘Apologize?' Nelson almost spat at me. ‘Look at Clive!' he said, pointing to the guy I'd whacked. ‘He goin' t' lose teet'.' He paused. ‘Well, he goin' t' lose the one front toot' he had.' Then he laughed. ‘Still, he won't be any uglier than he was before.'

Clive looked suitably affronted and glared at him miserably. If he'd known that Sergeant Wilkinson showed us that particular blow because it was supposed to shatter the nose and send bone fragments into the brain, but that I'd never had cause to use it and so had messed it up, he might have been slightly more inclined to thank his lucky stars and felt a bit happier, but I decided to wait until we knew each other better before explaining all that.

Still, I could look on the bright side. If Nelson Smith hadn't completely lost his, admittedly rather elementary, sense of humour, maybe this wasn't going to be quite as hard as I'd feared. On the other hand  . . .

‘Well, for what it's worth, I am sorry,' I said. ‘Really.'

‘You got a nerve. Comin' back here.' Nelson Smith shook his head. ‘And some balls. What you want, man?'

‘I've got a proposition,' I said slowly.

‘Oh, yeah,' he said carefully. ‘What you got to offer?'

‘Ricky Mountjoy,' I said.

The sudden gleam from his golden tooth told me we might just have negotiated an uneasy truce.

I arranged to meet them outside their club in twenty minutes. That gave them time to, as Nelson put it, ‘get tooled up'. I wasn't sure if I liked the sound of that or not. I hoped I'd be the only person with a firearm. Even if it was unloaded, it gave me some sort of edge and a modicum of comfort. Of course, neither the edge nor the comfort would last long if anyone else found out the cartridges were slowly disintegrating in the continuous and, I suspected, toxic stream of pee and water in the
pissoir
at the Frighted Horse.

I used the same twenty minutes to check that Viv Laurence hadn't miraculously turned up back at her flat, and to telephone Miss Summers at her digs from a telephone box in Soho Square that had a similar whiff to the Frighted Horse's loo, and for similar reasons. I told Miss Summers about Lee being in clink and suggested she ring Les to find out which smarmy brief she should be in touch with. Her relief at hearing that Lee was safe carried down the phone line in the warmth of her thanks. But there was more than an edge of anxiety when I explained that he was being held on suspicion of murder.

I left the telephone box with some relief. Eau de stale sweat, smoke and urine has never been my favourite fragrance.

I stood on the pavement and looked at the grey sky brooding above the little patch of green and wondered what I thought I was doing – although, in truth, I knew that thought had little to do with anything.

It wasn't my fault that thugs had invaded Viv Laurence's life. She'd brought that on herself when she'd salvaged what she could of Leroy Summers from Ricky and the boys. And, as the saying goes, in this particularly seedy neck of this wicked old world, no good deed goes unpunished.

All the same, I couldn't shake off a feeling of responsibility. I'd asked Malcolm Booth to take me to her, and then I'd had the chance encounter with her in St Martin-in-the-Fields, when Fitzgerald's boy, Stanley, had been following me. I felt I owed her something, and I wouldn't feel right if I didn't try to find her.

Whether I'd gone about things in a sensible fashion by enlisting Nelson Smith in the venture was a fish of quite a different odour.

I briefly toyed with the idea of sidling furtively off into the narrow little road on the east side of the square, the one that leads to the top end of Charing Cross Road, and plunging down into the dank and gloomy depths of Tottenham Court Road tube station. But I knew I wouldn't do it.

For some reason I thought of Big Luc, the bravest man I've ever known, sitting against an apple tree, sipping Calvados from his battered old flask, waiting quietly for the signal that the German patrol we were planning to take out was on its way. He was, of course, as anxious as the rest of us, as worried about taking a machine-gun bullet in the guts (which, eventually, he did), just as neurotically concerned that his weapons would function faultlessly, and anyone who thought him impervious to fear was wrong. Robert had faith in something he called historical inevitability, and Big Luc, also a communist, may have shared that. But Luc had, above everything else, an ironclad belief in his own competence. And that, I'm sure, was what sustained him in those final tense minutes before an operation and gave him the self-discipline to exude confidence.

I don't kid myself that I share Big Luc's self-belief – I know that I'm far too fallible for that – but, so far, I've never got myself into a situation I haven't got out of. And, while I recognize that could easily change, that knowledge does give me some comfort when I'm about to plunge into some foolhardy adventure. I'd survive. Unless, of course, I didn't.

So, I didn't run for the hills – well, shuffle towards the Central Line. I straightened my shoulders, turned my back on the noxious telephone box and marched down Greek Street.

At least I wouldn't have to neurotically check the sawn-off stuck in my waistband.

I knew it wasn't loaded so it didn't matter whether it was functioning or not.

Nevertheless, I still reached inside my buttoned-up jacket and ran my hand over its smooth, warm stock when I saw Clive sitting on the bonnet of a big, maroon Ford Zephyr parked outside the shabby, rundown building that housed the Sugar Cane Club.

Clive was preoccupied with his loose front tooth, holding it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, waggling it cautiously. He jumped off the bonnet of the car and glared at me as soon as I came abreast of him. I nodded amiably, but he didn't respond. I couldn't altogether blame him.

At least I wouldn't have to worry too much about reprisals until we'd found Ricky Mountjoy, and, I have to be honest, I hoped that Clive and his companions would have their hands full at that point and I could, like a
News of the World
journalist at a suburban tea party that was about to turn into something more
intime
, make my excuses and leave.

Clive sauntered across the pavement and into the little alleyway where the side entrance to the club could be found. He hammered on the flaking black paint of the door and yelled in a voice loud enough for Cliff Michelmore to hear over in Germany, at the other end of ‘Two-Way Family Favourites'. Though whether the good Mr Michelmore would have found him as easy on the ear or as comprehensible as Jean Metcalfe is another matter altogether.

‘Boss, yo' man here,' was what I thought he said.

A few minutes later, Nelson Smith burst out of the door and bestowed his wicked golden smile on me. ‘So, Tony,' he said, rubbing his big hands together, ‘where we goin'?'

‘I'd like to get one thing straight before we go,' I said.

He looked at me expectantly, moving the toothpick he was chewing from one side of his mouth to the other.

‘This is just about talking, right? I don't want any more killings.'

He stopped smiling. ‘You t'ink we kill them boys? We didn't kill no boys. They hearts was still beatin' when we left them.'

I didn't say anything, but I must have looked sceptical.

‘Anyhow, this is just to parley wit' the boy. Explain the ways of this wicked ole world.' He shrugged. ‘Like wit' your friend, James Dean. We didn't hurt him none, did we?'

I spread my hands in an ‘I suppose not' gesture, but I wasn't so sure what would have happened if I hadn't turned up.

‘OK then,' he said. ‘Let's get in the motor. Like I say, we jus' goin' to have a quiet chat wit' him, like we was in a Joe Lyons tea house.'

‘Fine,' I said, looking around for his other companion. ‘As I told you, he's going to have some friends with him. Shouldn't there be more of us?'

He laughed and patted me on the shoulder. His palm was surprisingly pink.

‘Victor ain't feelin' so good.' He rubbed his jaw. ‘Your pal, the big man, he knows how to punch. Anyway, we don't need no one else. We got you.' He laughed again. ‘'Sides, we're only talkin'.'

He patted me again, this time on the cheek, skipped around to the other side of the car, hauled the door open and slid on to the passenger seat. Clive sat behind the driving wheel.

I hesitated for a few seconds and then clambered into the rear, where I sat in splendid isolation.

‘OK, tough guy,' Clive said, ‘where we goin'?'

By the time we turned off Leytonstone High Road into Cat Hall Road and headed towards Grove Green Road, I was feeling increasingly anxious.

Nelson Smith and Clive had passed a hand-rolled cigarette between them for most of the journey, taking the smoke deep into their lungs before exhaling and filling the car with a distinctive sweet smell. And they had become more and more relaxed and affable, laughing uproariously every so often at some remark I either didn't quite catch or didn't understand.

I wasn't sure how much use they would be if things turned ugly, as there was every chance of them doing. They were even polite enough to offer the cigarette to me a couple of times, but I declined on the grounds that I didn't smoke. Which didn't matter, really, given how much of the stuff was wafting about in the car.

At least one of my anxieties was allayed a bit though. I didn't think that I had all that much to fear from them afterwards.

And I did feel strangely exotic, sitting in a car with two black, surprisingly cuddly, gangsters on a dull grey Sunday afternoon.

I leaned forward and told Clive to pull over and park a few doors away from the house where the Mountjoys had entertained me on Saturday morning, a mere thirty-two hours before. The car gently bumped against the kerb and rolled to an uneasy stop with a little squeak of the brakes and a harsh, metallic complaint from the gearbox.

I poked my head a bit further forward into the gap between their seats and turned to Nelson. Since we were all getting on so well, I thought I might as well ask. ‘Did you really not kill those boys?' I said.

‘No, man,' he said. ‘We gave 'em a warning and a little spanking, but we didn't kill 'em. We didn't even confiscate their goods. We don't kill people, man.'

Clive barked out a phlegmy laugh. ‘Not unless we have to,' he said.

‘No,' Nelson said, ‘we don't kill people.'

‘That's good to know,' I said. ‘It puts my mind at rest.' Which it didn't. ‘Stay here. I'll find out where Ricky is. I'll be back in two minutes.'

I climbed out of the car and walked to the steps that led up to the front door of the quite grand villa that Old Man Mountjoy lived in. I looked back at the big Ford.

The problem with being exotic is that you're also conspicuous. Black faces aren't that common in Leyton. There weren't many people around. In fact, I couldn't see anyone, but that wouldn't be the case for long. Someone would notice.

I bounced up the half-dozen steps and rapped on the door.

Nothing happened, and I was about to knock again when I heard someone shuffle along the hall and fumble with the lock. The door opened slightly, and the old man's face peered out. He looked at me blankly. ‘Yeah?' he said.

‘Remember me? I was here yesterday morning.'

He clearly didn't recall me, and the blank look turned suspicious. ‘What you want?' he said, withdrawing his head slightly, preparing to slam the door.

‘A word with young Ricky,' I said. ‘That's all.'

‘Ricky ain't here.'

‘Oh, right. Do you know where he is?' I said.

‘Ricky don't live here. I
told
him he couldn't bring her here. Why would he bring her here? Anyway, I was listening to the wireless. I like Billy Cotton.' He looked up at the sky and smiled. ‘Wakey, waaakeeeey,' he said very quietly. He started to hum something that might have been ‘Somebody Stole My Gal'.

‘Who was that, Mr Mountjoy? Who did Ricky bring here?' I said.

‘Her, of course. The girl.' He ran his hand over the delicate silver stubble on his chin. ‘Nothing but trouble, girls.'

‘Right,' I said. ‘So, where is he? Ricky, I mean.'

‘The yard, I expect. They went to the yard. I told him he couldn't bring her here. Not now. It's too late.'

‘How long ago was that?' I said.

‘I don't know. Half an hour?'

‘How many of them went to the yard?' I said.

He looked at me blankly again. ‘I don't know. Dave, young Ricky, George. All of them. I'm off.' And, still muttering, he shut the door on me. I heard him walking back along the hall, his carpet slippers slapping against the wooden floor.

I stood on the top step and looked back at the maroon Ford. There still wasn't anyone around, but a few cars were chugging towards it from one direction, and a bus was bustling up behind it.

I couldn't be completely sure – he seemed more than a bit confused – but I guessed that the old boy had just confirmed that Ricky had picked up Viv Laurence. Again, I couldn't be sure, but I hoped he was right about there only being three of them at the yard.

I shivered. It was a bit chilly on the steps, and I ran down them and back to the car, where Nelson and Clive were sharing another fragrant cigarette. I slid into the rear seat and enjoyed the warm fug for a few seconds before telling Clive where to go.

The name Temple Mills goes way back to when one of the Henrys (the second, I think) had his steward, who was probably called William, give some land next to the River Lea to the Knights Templar sometime back in the twelfth century, and they, according to Mrs Wilson, put a water mill on it. It's changed a bit since those days – it even boasted a gunpowder factory at one time that – again according to Mrs Wilson, who knew all about these things – blew up, killing a French Huguenot, which may just be why that lodged in my mind. I don't suppose the knights would recognize the place now, with the acres of marshalling yards and engine sheds, and, of course, the Mountjoys' big scrap-metal business.