September Song (34 page)

I didn't quite know what to make of that. Why follow me to tell me something I already knew? After all, he'd taken me to Viv's gaff. Either he wasn't such a bad bloke or else he had something he was covering up. I'd suspected the latter before. Now I was just plain puzzled.

I shrugged and shoved my way through the door of the Frighted Horse.

It was the usual scene of genial hospitality.

Two tables were occupied by crumpled-looking middle-aged men, who looked at me suspiciously. Well, the demob suit was decidedly dodgy. My old soldier was standing at the bar. The glass of whisky in his hand and the half pint of beer standing on the deeply scarred wooden counter in front of him, waiting to chase the whisky down his gullet, suggested he'd decided on a well-balanced meal. He offered me another of his shabby salutes. Maybe he thought I was good for another half crown.

I nodded to him and then made my way over to Nelson Smith, Clive and their mate, who were drinking glasses of rum in the corner. Nelson looked up at me and the mean little expression on his face suggested that perhaps he wasn't his usual sunny self.

‘What you want, man?' he said. ‘We ain't in a good mood wit' you.'

‘Peace offering,' I said and put the carrier bag on the table. ‘From Mr Fitz.'

They all looked at each other, and Nelson prodded Clive. He stood up, leaned across the table and peered into the bag suspiciously.

‘What's in there, man?' he said.

‘Like I said, a peace offering. Nothing too flammable. I promise.'

I backed away as Clive took one of the little packets I'd carefully packed into the bag, opened it, sniffed it and nodded approvingly to Nelson.

‘Whoa. Where you goin'?' Nelson said to me before I'd gone a few feet.

‘I got things to do,' I said.

‘You don' wan' a drink?'

‘No, I'm just the errand boy,' I said. ‘Got other errands.'

He nodded. ‘All right,' he said, ‘just bein' friendly here.'

‘I appreciate that,' I said, ‘but I've got to go.'

Clive took the bag off the table and tucked it down by his feet.

They made no attempt to stop me, so I left.

I was back on Frith Street and well away when three things struck me:

First, maybe I'd misjudged Malcolm. He had done me a real favour. The two police cars that passed me going towards the pub suggested that James Fitzgerald was even more unscrupulous than even I'd suspected and would have had no qualms about seeing me arrested along with Nelson and his mates.

Second, I was getting very wet.

And third, of course, I'd been very, very stupid.

The Central Line train I sat in all the way from Tottenham Court Road to Leyton whiffed even worse than usual. The filthy floor, littered with cigarette butts and spent matches as usual, was wet from dripping umbrellas and raincoats so the fag ends were soggy and little shreds of brown and gold tobacco wormed their way into every crevice. The smell of damp wool added to the smoky miasma, but I suspected that much of that was coming from my antique suit.

I stared at my reflection in the grimy window opposite as we screeched our way under Holborn and Chancery Lane and brooded a little.

I'd learned in the war not to underestimate women.

Ghislaine, in her beret and Robert's big, worn leather jacket, had been as fierce as any of the men in our little group, as determined and every bit as brave. And there had been the tough, redoubtable and authentically dirty-minded factory girls, wearing trousers, their hair tied up in scarves.

All the same, I still found it difficult not to think of them as the gentler sex.

You opened doors for women, you walked on the side of the pavement nearest the road to protect them from splashes from passing cars, you raised your hat to women. You worked from half past eight until half past five to put bread on the table for the little woman.

Well, I didn't. But then I didn't wear a hat either.

The train clattered to the surface at Stratford in a rush of grey light. The bloke sitting next to me took out a pouch of Golden Virginia and a packet of Rizla and, with remarkable dexterity, quickly rolled a thin cigarette, spilling nothing in spite of the erratic motion of the train. He put away the makings, ran his tongue over the emaciated little tube and then tucked the roll-up neatly behind his ear.

A little cold fresh air blew in when the doors opened, and I shivered slightly. But at least it seemed to have stopped raining.

I yawned, stretched a bit and stood up when the train started again, grabbed one of the swinging straps above me and swayed along until we reached Leyton.

I'd made a decision. The damp, wrinkled suit had to go. I had a plan of action: fish and chips, cash a cheque at the Midland Bank and take a bus to the Bakers' Alms. Half an hour in Foster Bros should see me right. A new suit and a crisp white shirt and I'd feel fine. Well, as fine as anyone with a few bumps on the head and a burnt hand could feel. The shoes were old but not too shabby. They'd do for the time being.

Of course, I knew what I was really doing. Just putting off a little chat. But I'd have to buy a new suit sometime. I felt more cheerful.

There was a spring in my step, and I bounced up the stairs at Leyton station. Even the headline in the
Evening Standard
about troops heading off to Cyprus that I noticed as I passed the vendor on my way out didn't depress me.

Billie Holiday was singing ‘Good Morning Heartache' when I clanged my way into the shop. (Jerry's bell didn't really ring.)

It was my day for peace offerings, and I handed Jerry the canary-yellow silk tie I'd bought him. But this peace offering was kosher. I didn't think the police would come crashing in. Unless it was to arrest him for crimes against conventional taste.

I had a momentary pang when I thought about Nelson Smith and Clive, but, if I'm honest, it was more a worry that they might have mentioned me to the police than concern about them being banged up. It did also cross my mind, not for the first time, that they could well be thinking that I'd set them up, which was probably what Mr Fitz intended. Still, they had more pressing concerns than that just at the moment. All the same, it would fester. I could always hope they'd get long stretches.

Jerry claimed to love the tie, and Jeannie Summers came out from his living room to admire it. And me in my new charcoal-grey suit. She hummed along with Miss Holiday.

Les had called an hour or so before, and I rang him back. It seemed that there was nothing much that the quacks could do for Daphne. It was just a matter of time, and she'd asked if she could go home. She'd be there the next day, he said, and her sister would be staying again to look after her. There was a catch in his voice. She'd asked, apparently, if I could visit and, perhaps, bring someone. She'd said I'd know what she meant. I said I did and that I'd see what I could do. If Viv Laurence hadn't pushed off and moved back to Soho, I wouldn't have had to. I pondered that for a moment after I'd manoeuvred the receiver back on to its cradle

A couple of customers – a boy and a girl of about sixteen – came into the shop, and I took Miss Summers off to Costello's for a cup of tea.

She was looking pale and tired but surprisingly elegant in one of Jerry's grey shirts and her blue costume.

The tea Enzo poured for us was dark brown and stewed. I put a couple of spoonfuls of sugar in mine. She didn't look at all interested in hers.

‘Mrs Dale's Diary' murmured gently from the big, brown wireless behind the counter, and I thought of Viv Laurence and smiled.

‘I wanted a quiet word,' I said.

‘You've guessed, haven't you?' Miss Summers said.

‘I suppose so,' I said.

‘I love him,' she said simply.

‘And he loves you,' I said.

She nodded. ‘I knew that you'd understand. The French understand
l'amour
,' she said.

‘I'm not really French,' I said. ‘My parents were, but I'm not.' I paused and thought for a moment. ‘Why didn't you take him with you, when you ran away?'

She shrugged. ‘I don't know.' She waved her hands helplessly. ‘I was in a state. I just ran.'

I swallowed some tea.

‘They were going for him,' she said in a flat monotone, like in the pictures when the broad finally confesses to the dogged flatfoot who's been pursuing her relentlessly. ‘One of them had his cosh out.'

‘They were going for him?' I said. ‘But they'd just been set on themselves.'

‘I don't know about that,' she said. ‘When I got there, they looked all right. Except they were mean and mad and they looked like they were going to take it out on him. I saw the knife on the ground. One of them must have dropped it, I suppose. Anyway, I used it on both of them and ran. It was only a matter of a few seconds. They didn't yell or anything.'

I wondered if Viv Laurence had seen her. She must have done. Then why hadn't she mentioned it? Some sense of loyalty to her sex perhaps. Or maybe Miss Summers had arrived at the alley just after Viv. It was possible.

‘Was there anyone else there?'

She looked puzzled.

‘Did anyone see you?'

‘I don't think so,' she said, shaking her head.

I wasn't sure I could face any more tea, but I had to do something to cover my silence, so I took another sip.

‘What are you going to do?' she said.

‘Me?' I said. ‘Nothing. What should I do?'

‘Tell the police.'

‘Why would they believe me? They've got a confession. You and Lee can sort this one out between you.' Anyway, I had no intention of going anywhere near the good Inspector Rose if I could help it.

‘What'll happen to him?'

I shrugged. ‘I don't know. He might get away with manslaughter. But they were knifed in the back, weren't they?'

‘You think they might hang him,' she said.

I shrugged again. ‘Let's hope not.'

She leaned across the table and put her hand on mine. Fortunately, it was my left hand. Her touch was soft and cool. It felt good. It also meant that I couldn't lift the cup and so didn't have to swallow any more of Enzo's foul brew.

She looked thoughtful, but she still didn't drink any tea. A scum was forming on the surface of her cup.

‘Do you think the judge might be more lenient with a woman?' she said.

‘I doubt it,' I said. ‘They just hanged Ruth Ellis.' A fleeting memory from my time at Church Road School came into sharp focus: Mrs Wilson's white hair the only bright spot in the November-afternoon gloom of the dusty classroom as she says to my mate, Bob, ‘No, no, no, Robert, meat is hung; men – and Dr Crippen was a man – are
hanged
.'

Jeannie Summers stared off into space for a few moments. ‘Did you mean what you said about finding some money for the lawyers?' she said.

I nodded.

‘I'll pay you back, of course. When I can,' she said. ‘I don't know how to thank you.'

‘There might be something,' I said.

She squeezed my hand.

TWENTY-ONE

I
n the event, I didn't have to go to Inspector Rose. He came to me.

It wasn't, he said, an official visit. To prove it, he'd left the grumpy-looking Sergeant Radcliffe in the back of the comfortable old black Wolseley. At least, I assumed that was why he pointed it out to me as we stood on the pavement outside the shop. The fact that it was ten o'clock in the morning, rather than ten minutes before dawn, also went some way to confirming the friendly and informal nature of the call.

After tea in Costello's, Jeannie Summers had made her way back to the boarding house close to Marble Arch where she still had a room. I'd slipped her a fiver to cover her immediate expenses. And that meant that I'd spent the night in my own bed and, in spite of the occasional nasty dream about fires, I'd slept quite well. I'd also washed, shaved, breakfasted on bacon and eggs and put on some fresh new clothes. I'd been ready for almost anything – even the inspector.

I invited him up to my office for a cup of tea.

He sat on my grandfather's chair and fiddled with his pipe while I went to the scullery to boil the kettle.

‘That's a nasty wound,' he said, pointing the stem of his pipe at my right hand when I brought the coronation coach tray with teapot, milk bottle and cups on it and plonked it on the worn old table that masqueraded as my desk.

I'd decided to take the bandage off, and the back of the hand really did look raw and angry. It still hurt too.

‘It's nothing,' I said. ‘Burnt myself.'

He nodded sagely.

He was looking his usual dapper self in a smart blue suit set off by a dark-blue bow-tie. I wasn't sure about the brown shoes, but I didn't say anything.

‘So,' I said, pouring tea, ‘what can I do for you, Inspector?'

‘Well,' he said, ‘your name came up this morning, Tony.'

‘Really?' I said. ‘Sugar?'

He shook his head and took the cup and saucer I offered him. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘At least, one of my colleagues was asking if I knew someone called Tony. Apparently, the name was mentioned by some unsavoury types he caught red-handed, with the goods.'

I sat down on the wooden chair behind my desk and drank some tea. ‘That's odd,' I said. ‘I don't really know any un-savoury types. Must be some other Tony.'

‘Hmm,' he said.

I watched him as he tried to juggle pipe and cup and saucer. Eventually, he admitted defeat and slipped his pipe back into his jacket pocket.

‘That's what I said,' he said. ‘The Tony I know wouldn't have anything to do with anything crooked. He's a decent sort. But I also said I'd check with you. Just in case you know something.'

‘Can't help, I'm afraid,' I said.

‘So,' he said mildly, ‘you weren't in Soho yesterday around midday?'