Dead Beat

by Patricia Hall

  ‘The super’s been seized by one of his fits of morality,’ the sergeant grumbled. ‘Doesn’t like perverts cutting each other’s throats on his manor and threatening Christian civilization as we know it. We’re going to raid the queer pub and put a few of them behind bars for a while. As if that will do any good. Still, it’s good sport and a bit of overtime for the lads.’

  Barnard felt a surge of anger, which he was careful to keep well hidden. The sergeant’s reluctance to launch a crusade just as he would usually be retiring to the pub with his mates for an evening’s boozing was down to laziness rather than any remote sympathy with queers. He would leave them to it, he thought. He needed to find Kate O’Donnell, give her the latest news about her brother and tell her in no uncertain terms what exactly she must do about it. He knew he had Jimmy in reserve, but the idea of the homeless boy being cross-examined at the Old Bailey did not fill him with confidence in his witness. Kate undoubtedly needed to take a trip home and drum up some support there for her brother if she wanted to see him get out of DCI Venables’ clutches. It was belt and braces time.

  Kate herself was slumped in a corner of the Blue Lagoon, gazing sightlessly into an almost empty coffee cup. She had come back to see Marie after finishing work, rather than go home to the flat which she knew would be empty until Marie ended her shift. Tess had announced over breakfast that she had a date with another trainee teacher at her school to go to the pictures to see a new film called From Russia with Love, a sequel to Dr No which they had all enjoyed the previous year. Kate wondered idly where she might meet anyone who would ask her out to the pictures. The men at the agency were uniformly middle-aged and married, spent their lunchtimes and after-work hours together in the pub, and anyway seemed to regard her with more supercilious amusement than romantic interest. They neither expected nor wanted her to succeed as a photographer.

  But the main cause of her depression was her failure to find any way to extricate Tom from the situation he found himself in. She had heard no more from Harry Barnard since the previous day and she seriously doubted that Dave Donovan would help Tom’s cause as energetically as she would like him to. She glanced at Marie, who was busy serving a group of lads in Mod suits and parkas, and suddenly felt overpowered by the bright lights, the clatter and chatter and background beat of Gerry and the Pacemakers on the jukebox. On second thoughts, she decided, she would rather be on her own somewhere quiet. She would go back to the flat after all.

  She set off in the direction of the Underground, weaving her way through the gathering evening crowds and dodging the cruising cars looking for parking in the narrow streets, until to her surprise found her way blocked by half a dozen police cars and vans outside what she now knew was the queer pub. Intrigued, she pulled out her precious camera and began to take shots of men being led out by officers who did not seem too bothered about how roughly they handled their prey. Trying not to draw attention to herself, she stepped back into a doorway only to find that as she stuck her head out to take a shot of a man with his head streaming with blood as he was shoved into a police van, she had been spotted by a uniformed sergeant who headed in her direction with an angry expression on his face.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, young lady?’ he asked.

  ‘Taking pictures,’ she said with her sweetest smile. ‘Do you always beat up people like that, la?’

  ‘If they resist arrest,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘And is that what they really did?’ she asked innocently. ‘They don’t look the violent type to me.’

  ‘And you’d know all about that, would you? I think maybe you’d better let me have the film out of that camera of yours, don’t you?’

  Kate froze. There was no way she would hand over her precious camera but she was not sure that she would not be arrested if she did not comply, and that was the last thing she wanted with Tom in his present desperate situation.

  ‘I don’t think my friend Harry Barnard would like you bothering me like that,’ she said, putting on her sweetest smile.

  ‘Flash Harry?’ the sergeant said, his voice heavy with scepticism. ‘How well do you know him, then?’

  ‘Quite well,’ Kate said, crossing her fingers. ‘You can check me out with Harry.’

  ‘Oh, I will, miss,’ the sergeant said. ‘I will. Now I suggest you get yourself home. This is no place for a respectable girl on her own at night, especially not drawing attention to herself like you are.’

  ‘I’m a professional photographer,’ Kate said with as much dignity as she could muster as she held her offending camera behind her back.

  ‘Well, if I were you, the next time you see Harry Barnard I should ask him where it’s safe to take pictures and where it’s not,’ the sergeant said. ‘Now be off before I change my mind.’

  Kate took his advice and headed back towards Oxford Street briskly, but before she had crossed the next intersection she felt a hand on her elbow and found the flamboyant figure of Vincent Beaufort, slightly less flamboyant without his hat, which he had scrunched up in his hand, falling into step beside her.

  ‘I saw you back there, dear, taking snaps. What was all that about?’

  ‘I just happened to be passing. I thought the police were being very rough.’

  Beaufort laughed mirthlessly. ‘You really are the innocent abroad, aren’t you, dearie? They come in mob-handed every now and again just for the fun of it, as far as I can see. I expect they get bored at the nick. I was lucky tonight. I slipped out for a slash just as they burst in, and managed to get out of the back door in time. What are you taking pictures for anyway, dear? It’s a funny thing for a girl to be doing round here.’

  ‘Mainly for some people who want to get kids off the streets in Soho,’ she said. She guessed that Veronica Lucas would not be too worried about the raid on the queer pub but at least her commission made her interest sound plausible.

  Vinnie peered cautiously back the way they had come. ‘Photographs?’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of people wanting to take photographs at the moment. I hear the lad who got his throat cut was into that sort of thing, and not too scrupulous about how old his friends were either. Now that’s something that can really get you into bother, and not just with the Old Bill either.’

  ‘I heard something about that,’ Kate said.

  ‘And the word is that there’s some kid around who knows something about that murder, a little boyfriend maybe, if that’s what Mason was into. Maybe you’ll come across him on your travels.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’ Kate asked, her mouth dry.

  ‘Not that I heard,’ Vinnie said. ‘If he’s any sense he’ll have scarpered by now. He’s likely not safe on the streets.’

  ‘And if he hasn’t left London where might he be?’ Kate asked, wanting the idea which suddenly flashed into her mind confirmed.

  ‘The holy roller at St Peter’s might have taken him in, I suppose,’ Vinnie said. ‘Why don’t you ask that sweet-talking bastard of a copper who’s always about the place? I know for a fact he takes kids down there sometimes to get them out of harm’s way. Barnard, he’s called. Harry Barnard.’

  Of course, Kate thought to herself, and wasn’t he some sweet-talking bastard, telling her nothing about this boy. ‘I went to St Peter’s to take some pictures. I think I may have met this boy you’re talking about. I’ll go down there again and see if I can track him down,’ she said, taking the flashbulb off her camera and stuffing the whole works in her bag. And when I see Harry Barnard again, she thought, I’ll find out what the hell he thinks he’s playing at because as far as I can see he’s been lying to me from the moment we met.

  SEVENTEEN

  Kate O’Donnell caught her brother’s eyes briefly across the magistrates’ court, before he shook his head almost imperceptibly, glanced away and refused to look at her again. Sitting in the front row of the public seats, she had a close-up view of his bruised and battered face as he was hustled into the dock by a couple of uniformed policemen,
and was almost overwhelmed with anger. How had he got into that battered state? she asked herself. In a low voice, Tom confirmed his name and his address at the flat where he had lived with Jonathon Mason. The charge of murder was read out and when he was asked to plead, he said ‘Not Guilty’ in a faint voice and was remanded in custody for a week. And to Kate’s surprise, that was the end of the proceedings. Her brother was hustled away again, and the court resumed its processing of petty criminals.

  Kate hurried out of the room and went back to the front of the building where she found a uniformed policeman who gazed down at her benignly enough until she explained that she was Tom’s sister, when his face clouded over.

  ‘Can I see him?’ Kate asked, feeling frantic. ‘He’ll need a lawyer. How do I find out if he’s got a lawyer? He’ll need help. The rest of his family’s in the north. I’m the only one he’s got in London.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ the officer said. ‘You’ll not get to see him here, darling. You’ll be able to visit when he gets to jail. If you leave your name and address at the office, they’ll tell you where he’s been taken, though he won’t get there till the end of the day. He’ll wait here until the prison van turns up at four.’

  ‘You mean he’s got to sit here all day by himself?’ Kate said, horrified. ‘That’s terrible. Surely you could get me in to see him for a few minutes? Come on. I’m not going to do any harm. I haven’t got a file stashed away in my handbag, you know. I’m not going to help him escape. I just want to talk to him. He looks desperate. In fact, he looked suicidal when they took him out.’

  The officer looked startled at that.

  ‘He’s tried to kill himself before, you know,’ Kate lied, spotting a weakness she could exploit. ‘I bet they don’t know that. Shouldn’t we tell them?’

  For an instant the officer hesitated before Kate felt a firm hand on her elbow. She spun round to find herself face-to-face with DS Harry Barnard.

  ‘You certainly believe in the direct approach,’ he said. ‘Come over here and I’ll tell you what we’ll do.’ He drew her away into a relatively quiet corner of the crowded lobby. ‘I reckon I can get you in to see him, but we’ll have to use a bit of subterfuge. Can you pretend to be a solicitor’s clerk? I’d say a solicitor but you look too young and there’s not many women in that game.’

  ‘Another unsuitable job?’ Kate muttered.

  Barnard ignored her. ‘You’ll need some sort of file to carry, a notepad, all that. But if I vouch for you I’m pretty sure I can get you in. A brief is the one person who’s got a right to talk to a prisoner. Go down to the Strand and kit yourself out and I’ll see you back here in fifteen minutes. All right?’

  Kate nodded. ‘What do you get out of this?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to sit in with you. I want to hear what he says.’

  ‘He won’t confess,’ Kate said angrily. ‘He didn’t do it.’

  ‘I know that,’ Barnard said unexpectedly. ‘I was looking for you last night to tell you to go back to Liverpool and get his mates to confirm his alibi.’

  ‘I was out,’ Kate said quickly. She would not, she thought, tell him about her late visit to St Peter’s where she had been unable to find any trace of the boy or anyone willing even to confirm that he had ever been there. Someone, she had thought at the time, had very effectively silenced St Peter’s. She looked at Barnard doubtfully. ‘You really believe he’s innocent?’ she asked.

  ‘I have some evidence,’ he said. ‘But it’s fragile. It would still be better if you could prove he was in Liverpool at the time. Now, do you want to see him, or not?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Kate said angrily. ‘I’ll see you back here in fifteen minutes.’

  The holding cell beneath the magistrates’ court was small and filthy and reeked of urine and cigarette smoke which made Kate catch her breath. Tom O’Donnell was sitting hunched on the bare bunk when a uniformed officer opened the door for his sister and Harry Barnard and at first he looked more startled than pleased to see Kate.

  ‘This is a clerk from your solicitor’s office,’ Barnard said quickly before the PC closed the door behind them and left them crammed into the tiny cell. Barnard had warned Kate not to show any sign of affection in case the policeman outside chose to watch them through the grille in the door and Kate put a warning finger to her lips as Tom stood up and moved closer to her.

  ‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ she whispered, sitting down on the bunk and opening her completely blank file. Barnard waved Tom on to the bunk beside her and then positioned himself against the door, blocking the peephole. Kate put an arm round Tom’s shoulder and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m so pleased to see you,’ she said, in a barely audible voice. ‘This is Sergeant Harry Barnard who knows you didn’t do it, and wants to help you to get out of here.’

  Tom looked doubtfully at the London copper and then at his sister. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  Kate glanced at Barnard for a moment and knew that with him she would never be sure of anything. ‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘What I want you to do, Tom, is tell me exactly what happened between you and Jonathon Mason before you left and exactly what you did after that, once you knew he was dead. Just what you told me that day we met back home. Sergeant Barnard needs to hear it from you. And then we need to know who can vouch for you in Liverpool on the night your friend was killed. If you’ve got an alibi you need to prove it. Then we can get you out of here.’ Tom slumped back against the graffiti-covered wall for a moment and shut his eyes.

  ‘You really think they’ll believe me?’ he asked. ‘I told the bizzies who came for me I was nowhere near the flat that night, and all they did was laugh and give me a good thumping.’ He touched his bruised face gingerly. ‘They all hate us,’ he said. ‘They think we’re fair game. One of the bastards who brought me back said he’d have to fumigate the car once he’d got rid of me. Why should this beggar be any different? Why’s he going to believe me?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why,’ Barnard said very quietly. ‘I once had a brother. He was only a baby when the war started so he stayed with my mother when I was evacuated. He was much younger than me, so I can’t say I ever got to know him that well, my brother Derek. But I always had this feeling he was different, a quiet lad who wasn’t interested in rough games, like the rest of us. He took a lot of teasing for that. By the time I was pounding the beat as a probationer I guessed he was queer and I knew that wasn’t a good thing to be in the East End. My dad worked on the docks and he’d have killed Derek if he’d guessed. In the end though, he didn’t need to. Derek hanged himself when he was fifteen. He was being used by an older man who threatened to tell my family if he didn’t do as he was told. It was all hushed up at the inquest but I made it my business to find out what happened and later on I got that bastard sent down for ten years for interfering with young boys. That’s why, if your story hangs together, I’ll believe you. What grown men do together is their business, what grown men do to kids is my business. Clear enough for you?’

  The brother and sister sitting on the bunk stared at him for a moment in astonishment.

  Tom shook his head, as if to reorder his thoughts. ‘Fair play,’ he said. ‘Like I told Kate. This is how it was.’ And he quickly ran through the months of his disillusionment with Jonathon Mason, his suspicion that he was involved with more and more unacceptable friends and the final certainty that he was picking up very young men or boys. ‘And it was getting worse. I think even Jonathon was getting uncomfortable. I saw him in the street one day with some bloke I’d never seen before, having a furious row. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but it looked as if the big fellow was threatening Jon. When I asked him about it, he said the bloke owed him money but wouldn’t pay up, money for some work he’d done. And I didn’t think the work could be anything legal, or why would they be arguing in the street about it? I had to get out. Like I told Kate, I left on the Monday that week, hitched a lift with Dave Donovan and the band, and stayed in Liverpool with a mate
until the bizzies came for me the day before yesterday. I had absolutely nothing to do with Jonathon’s murder.’

  ‘If you thought your friend was getting into something criminal, why didn’t you go to the police?’ Barnard asked.

  Tom gave him a pitying look. ‘Because I knew Soho well enough by then to know I couldn’t trust you bastards,’ he said. ‘Half the time you’re in on the crime yourselves, or turning a blind eye for backhanders, according to what I hear in the pubs and clubs.’

  Barnard did not comment on that in spite of the sharp look Kate gave him, and she guessed that what Tom said was true enough.

  ‘If you can get one of your friends up in Liverpool to vouch for you when you come back to court next week, you should be able to get the charge thrown out,’ Barnard said. ‘I’ve got hold of another witness who saw someone else entirely coming out of your flat that night, but he’s only a kid, and a homeless lad at that. His testimony on its own may not be strong enough to clear you. You need to establish your alibi as solidly as you can. I’ve already suggested to Kate that she goes up north and drums up some support for you.’

  ‘I’ll do it, Tom, I promise. We’ll get you out of this,’ Kate said.

  For the first time since his visitors had arrived, Tom O’Donnell’s face lightened slightly. ‘I’ll tell you who to talk to back home,’ he said. ‘Write these names down in your little notebook, Miss Solicitor’s Clerk. If anyone can persuade them to help, I’m sure you can. You could charm the birds out of the trees if you tried.’

  When she had finished, Barnard pushed himself away from the door. ‘We’d better go. We’re pushing our luck as it is,’ he said. ‘I’ve just one piece of advice for you, Tom. When you get to the nick, ask to be put on the segregation wing on your own. You’ll be a bit lonely, but it’s better than the alternative, believe me. If you think the police hate queers – and most do – they don’t often get the chance to make your life the hell that people get in jail. So look after yourself.’