Dead Beat

by Patricia Hall

  ‘Done,’ Kate said, trying to hide her glee.

  ‘And don’t come running to me if the boys give you a hard time. I told you, it’s not a suitable job for a woman.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Kate said.

  ‘We surely will,’ Fellows said, turning back to his contact prints dismissively.

  Detective Sergeant Harry Barnard scowled across his desk at the DCI from the murder squad, once his boss but no longer.

  ‘He’s got no form that I know of, guv,’ he said, glancing down again at the glossy photographs of the almost decapitated body of a young man sprawled across a patterned rug which DCI Ted Venables had just dropped in front of him. ‘Nothing I’ve picked up, on or off the record.’

  ‘Ask around, will you, Harry,’ Venables said. ‘You know the scene. Post-mortem says he’s a Mary-Ellen, a nancy-boy, called himself an actor and we know what they get up to. But he’s got no form as far as I can see either. I know you’re not officially on the case but I need your contacts. Your guv’nor is going to get aerated about it anyway. You know what he’s like with queers.’

  Barnard smiled faintly. Venables had been replaced as head of Vice by DCI Keith Jackson, a lugubrious man who took most of the activities of Soho’s square mile in his stride, but tended to slip into crusader mode with the area’s homosexuals.

  ‘It’ll cost you,’ Barnard said.

  ‘I know the score. You don’t have to tell me about Vice. I bloody well invented it,’ Venables said. ‘But I’m out of touch now, since they moved me bloody onward and upward, and all the poorer for it.’

  Barnard grinned but said nothing. He liked to hear Venables beg, just as much as Venables hated it, but they both knew that there was no way the older man could escape until he completed his thirty years and took himself off to the house he coveted on the coast where he could indulge his passion for sea fishing, fresh crab sandwiches, the best malt whisky money could buy and perhaps even a little boat to indulge his hobby. He would be able to afford it after his lucrative years in Vice, with no need to hunt out a second career as some sort of private investigator. Barnard knew that. The ties which bound CID officers in and around central London were strong and indissoluble, a brotherhood that most joined and few escaped, or ever wanted to. And Venables gave no real sign of being strapped for cash, in spite of his ritual complaints.

  ‘Living right in the middle of Soho like that, off Greek Street, the locals must have known him,’ the DCI went on. ‘See what you can pick up for me, will you? Background’s what I need. Who he knew, where he went, who he picked up, who he brought back to the flat. There’s signs someone else had been living there but moved out sharpish. No one’s turned up yet, that’s for sure, and there’s not much in the way of personal details, so I reckon the bird’s flown. Quite likely the other bugger’s our lad, lover’s tiff maybe – it’s early days. Try the queer pubs.’

  ‘I’ll ask around, guv,’ Barnard said. ‘It’s over the top of ABC Books, isn’t it, the flat?’

  ‘Right,’ Venables said. ‘You have to ask who’d want to live over the top of all that muck, haven’t you?’

  ‘I know the place. Nice little earner Pete Marelli’s got there. I’ll have a word. I don’t think he owns the building but he’ll know what’s been going on up above.’

  ‘He called us apparently. Someone had left the street door open and it was blowing about so he went upstairs and found the body. He might have stayed there for weeks otherwise. But apparently Marelli clammed right up with the bloke I sent round. Not a squeak out of him, in spite of a bit of arm-twisting.’

  Barnard nodded. He knew that the arm-twisting might have been real but was unlikely to have brought the murder detectives any information which Marelli, one of the clannish Maltese, regarded as private. ‘Yeah, well, you have to know how to handle these boys,’ he said. ‘The Maltese, they’re very good at keeping their mouths shut when it suits them. And you know as well as I do that it suits them most of the time.’

  Barnard stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and stretched lazily. He was tall and slim and fashionably dressed in an Italian suit, button-down collar and a narrow tie, a sharp contrast to Venables’ own crumpled grey suit and conservative, much-washed neckwear. Venables, he thought, was noticeably missing the wife, Vera, who had apparently gone walkabout with someone who worked more regular hours and spent less leisure time in CID’s favourite watering holes. He glanced around the room with sharp, shrewd eyes before pulling on his trench-coat and pushing his floppy dark hair – an inch or so longer than totally acceptable to his superiors – out of his eyes and putting his trilby on at exactly the right angle.

  ‘I’ll let you know, guv,’ he said to Venables, as he headed for the door. ‘I know exactly how to squeeze his nuts if I have to.’

  The DCI watched him go and ground his teeth. Another pair of new shoes, he thought. Must have cost a bomb. Barnard seemed a sight smarter than he had been back when he worked as a young DC on his team some years before. Smarter and more successful, obviously, in one way and another, and the owner, he’d heard, of a brand new flat in poncey Highgate. How the hell did he manage that on a detective sergeant’s pay? As if he didn’t know. Still, he thought, his own prospects were looking up, and might well be enough to tempt Vera back to cook his meals and wash his clothes. She’d soon find out which side her bread was buttered.

  Harry Barnard strolled out of the nick and made his way east into the maze of narrow streets at the heart of Soho, luxuriating in the spring sunshine, though it was still cold and there were traces of rock-hard snow and ice lingering in the shade. It had been a long and bitter winter and most of the country was still shivering even as spring officially arrived. Barnard dodged through the bustling crowds, shaking a hand here and there, nodding at the girls he knew and some he didn’t, feeling that he was a prince of all he surveyed. It was, and always had been, an area in flux: immigrants came and moved on, restaurants and cafes of every nationality opened and closed, bright neon coffee bars full of sharp young things had recently sprung up alongside the pubs with their smoky, dark wood interiors and clientele where hopeful artists rubbed shoulders with hopeless drunks. And in between it all, the sex trade’s tentacles wove and interwove, just as fluid but even more enduring than the rest.

  Barnard picked up an apple from one of the stalls packed along the pavement in Berwick Street, with its mounds of fruit and veg and wind-blown litter, giving the stallholder a wave of acknowledgement, getting a smile, or perhaps a grimace, in return. He poked his head into one or two of the gloomy little Italian and Greek shops packed to the ceiling with merchandise, to which people flocked from all over London looking for delicacies they could not get in the suburbs. Impassive faces and dark eyes watched him from behind the counters, unblinking and unsmiling.

  Barnard enjoyed working in Soho, and knew its glittering, anarchic, neon-lit night life as well, if not better than its cosmopolitan daylight bustle. That was where he had truly embedded himself as a force to be reckoned with, amongst the porn shops behind their semi-respectable street-front windows, the strip clubs where girls writhed on the edge of what was legal, the clip joints which lured unwary tourists into spending far more than they planned on promises which were never fulfilled, and the tall, dilapidated houses with numerous bells at the side of doors with peeling paint and a peephole to vet visitors. ‘Vice Squad,’ he would almost whisper as he opened those doors and got a kick from the fear the words sparked amongst some of his targets and the grudging respect amongst others.

  At one point, he was surprised to see a face he recognized, though only just, as the tousled blonde was bundled up in a heavy winter coat and a headscarf effectively concealing the curves and charms he knew very well. The lack of her usual heavy make-up revealed dark circles under the blue eyes and a few wrinkles he had not guessed existed.

  ‘Evie,’ he murmured, giving her a cursory kiss on the cheek. ‘You’re up early, sweetie.’

  ‘Had to go t
o the quack,’ the woman said in little more than a whisper. ‘Had a bit of a scare. Thought I was up the bloody spout.’

  ‘Not mine, I hope,’ Barnard said quickly.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Evie said. ‘You’re one of the careful ones. Anyway, it was a false alarm.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he said, although he knew she was likely being economical with the truth and that, like most of the women on the game, she would have sought out one of the doctors who was quietly and illegally willing to help out if the fee was generous enough.

  ‘Are you coming up?’ Evie asked, gesturing to one of the doors with the multiple bells close by. Barnard made the effort to pull a regretful face, although he did not feel very interested in her hospitality in her present state.

  ‘Not today, sweetie,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a nasty murder round the corner. Nancy-boy got his throat cut. Anyway, you look as if you should go back to bed.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ she agreed and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘See you soon then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he echoed, though the ‘maybe’ was held under his breath. Suddenly Evie did not appear quite so attractive any more.

  Barnard was not bothering with any of his regular calls this morning. He glanced at the plate-glass windows of the Wardour Street film companies, with their glossy photographs of stars and exotic locations, without much interest. He was not a man much given to imagination. Real life provided him with all the excitement he needed, he thought, and epic battles between good and evil, black and white, justice and its opposite, struck him as essentially unrealistic. The big picture was much murkier than that, a question of mucky white and inky black at the edges and a sludgy ocean of greys in the middle. He cut through into Soho Square, a green oasis amongst the narrow, crowded streets, much used by lunching workers from the shops and offices of Oxford Street by day and vagrants by night, and finally into Greek Street where ABC Books – the object of DCI Venables’ interest – lurked in a narrow side-alley, only yards long, and ending in a blank brick wall.

  There was still a uniformed constable standing in the doorway which led to the flat above, and Barnard saluted him cheerily, getting only a surly nod in return. CID and the uniformed branch were seldom on speaking terms.

  ‘Nancy-boys?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ the constable muttered.

  ‘I’ll see what my old mate Pete Marelli’s got to say about it,’ Barnard said, pushing against the shop door and finding it unexpectedly locked. ‘Is he in there?’ he asked his colleague.

  The constable shrugged. ‘He was there earlier, when one of Mr Venables’ lads dropped in. Not that he was very welcome, I heard.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Barnard said, banging on the door with his fist, and then calling Marelli’s name through the letterbox at the base of the blacked-out glass. Somewhere inside, a dog began to bark hysterically.

  ‘Come on, Pete, you old bugger,’ Barnard shouted. ‘I know you’re in there. It’s Harry Barnard. Let me in.’ Eventually the two officers heard bolts being withdrawn, and Pete Marelli peered out of a two-inch crack between the door and the jamb, above a heavy security chain.

  ‘What do you want now?’ The voice had a whine in it. ‘I don’t know nothing about the flat upstairs. I just went to take a look because the door was open. I shouldn’t have bothered if it cause me all this trouble. Ask the landlord about it. I’ve told you lot where to find him.’

  Harry Barnard wedged his foot in the opening, narrow as it was, and put his face close to Marelli’s. ‘Let me in, Pedro, or there will be trouble, believe me. And keep that blasted animal of yours out of my way. I hate dogs, and especially that dog.’ Eventually the man on the other side of the door complied, and Barnard slipped into the shop while Marelli locked and barred the door again behind him. Barnard gave barely a glance at the lurid books crammed on to open shelves. He knew that there was nothing illegal here on open display and Marelli’s boss paid him enough not to investigate any further.

  ‘Where’s that blasted hound?’ Barnard asked, glancing round, and identifying a furious snuffling from the back door.

  ‘The door closed. Hector can’t get in,’ Marelli said.

  ‘He’d better not, or I’ll have the RSPCA on you. You shouldn’t be keeping a big brute like that in this tiny place. So – tell me what’s been going on upstairs, Pedro. And don’t muck me about or I’ll have your place searched every day for a bloody month. That’ll keep the punters away.’

  ‘I know nothing,’ Marelli said. ‘I don’t know even who live up there.’

  ‘And I don’t bloody believe you,’ Barnard said, giving Marelli a shove which knocked him back against one of his display shelves overloaded with books and magazines which teetered alarmingly above Marelli’s head. ‘And you know just how interested I might get in your back room if you don’t help me out when I need helping out, don’t you?’

  Marelli was a small, overweight man dressed in a crumpled suit and white shirt which looked as if it had long missed out on laundry. His paunch overhung his thick leather belt, and several chins overlapped his greasy collar. He wheezed slightly in response to Barnard’s shove and seemed to have difficulty in regaining his balance. His eyes shifted uneasily around the dimly lit shop as if looking for an escape route but eventually he shrugged.

  ‘You have to ask the landlord for names,’ he said. ‘I never spoke to them. They never spoke to me. Two young men is all I know.’

  ‘Descriptions?’ Barnard snapped.

  ‘One light hair, blond, long, very English, you know?’

  ‘He’s the one who’s dead,’ Barnard said, turning the photographs he had seen over in his mind quickly. ‘So the other one? What did he look like?’

  ‘More dark,’ Marelli said. ‘Also, hair not cut short. Not tall. In dark trousers and a suede jacket, brown, light brown, most times I saw him. I thought they were musicians, actors maybe. I saw them just through the window sometimes, coming and going. The way people do. They were nothing to do with me, Mr Barnard. Nothing. They are going straight to hell.’ And not the only ones, Barnard thought with a slight smile.

  ‘Did you see them yesterday?’ he asked.

  ‘The blond one, yes, I saw him go out as I was closing up. About seven o’clock. It was dark already, and the light out there’s not good, but I recognized him. But I haven’t seen the other one. Not for a few days.’

  ‘Did they make any noise up there? Did they have visitors? Did they go in and out to work? You must have known what they got up to.’

  Marelli screwed up his face in distaste. ‘I know nothing about what they got up to,’ he said. ‘They were queer boys, you know? I told you, they were like that. Mother of God, I want nothing to do with that sort. I know nothing about what they got up to. I’m a good Catholic.’

  ‘And the Pope’s a good Protestant,’ Barnard said with a grin. ‘You don’t do books for queer boys then?’

  ‘No,’ Marelli said flatly. ‘Never. Other shops do that.’

  Barnard cast his mind back to the last time he had searched Marelli’s back room, before he’d been persuaded not to bother again, and realized that the Maltese was probably telling the truth. The explicit pornography he stocked, most of it imported from abroad, broke the law in almost every respect but that.

  He laughed. ‘You should have told us about your neighbours then,’ he said. ‘We could have paid them a visit. My boss would have liked that. He thinks they should all be locked up.’

  Marelli shrugged. ‘Not my business,’ he muttered.

  ‘OK, but they must have had visitors, these queer boys,’ Barnard said. ‘Did they have parties, people going up there for fun and games? A couple of beefy guardsmen, maybe? Anyone else you can tell me about?’

  ‘No, no one else,’ Marelli said. ‘There were just the two. They were quiet upstairs. Some music on the gramophone sometimes, but not too loud. Quiet boys. No trouble. Ask landlord about them, not me. Here, I give you name. I gave it already to other
officer, but have it again, please.’

  He took a piece of paper and wrote down a name and address and phone number.

  ‘That is landlord,’ he said. ‘Talk to him. I just work here.’

  Barnard glanced at the scrawled name and smiled faintly. It was one he recognized. Someone else who owed him a favour.

  TWO

  Kate O’Donnell’s elation at landing a job did not last long. As she lugged her portfolio back up Frith Street towards Tottenham Court Road tube station, her other major preoccupation took the shine from her eyes. She glanced round and realized that at least there was someone she knew to talk to within walking distance. Her friend, Marie Best, schoolmate, aspiring actress and owner of the sofa that Kate was temporarily sleeping on, had given her a rough map of Soho and Kate could see that the coffee bar she worked at was just round the corner.

  The atmosphere in The Blue Grotto was steamy when Kate opened the door but the clientele sparse at this time of day, apart from a couple of teenaged lads in Mod suits and narrow ties, their parkas flung over the chairs behind them, which explained the two Lambrettas parked on the pavement outside. Marie was behind the counter looking bored and served her a frothy coffee in a glass cup and saucer without complaint before joining her at a bright blue Formica-topped table close to the bar.

  ‘You got it?’ she said, when Kate told her about the job. ‘That’s fantastic. I’m really pleased for you.’

  ‘Only a two month trial,’ Kate said, playing nervously with the sugar shaker. ‘But it’s a start.’

  ‘I wish I could get a part for two days, never mind two months,’ Marie said, running a hand through her red hair distractedly. ‘There’s been no call back from the last three auditions I went to. They’re all very sweet and encouraging, “darling this” and “darling that”. But then nothing. And this job’s only temporary while someone’s on holiday. You’ll have to pay me rent for the sofa if this carries on. I’ll have to sign on the dole when this job finishes. I’ve pretty well used up all my savings.’