by Lawton, John
‘Came over to Stepney. I’m not sure I’d ever say Jack was a mate, but we’ve been through a couple of scrapes together – you know, you were there yourself – but today I felt like one of the dogs. He was – he was on the edge of rage all the bloody time. I could feel it. He didn’t let rip. But he let me know in no uncertain terms what he thought of me.’
Troy said, ‘It’s not Jack’s decision, fortunately. It’s Onions’s. And Jack’s been like that a lot lately. We’ve all seen it. He’s too many unsolved murders on his hands. At least five at the moment – if you count Bernie Champion.’
Troy had thought a bit of professional interest might make Milligan perk up at this, but he ignored it.
‘He closed the door to my office and asked me straight out, did I think Al Mazzer was bent?’
There was no way out now. No amount of sympathy could grant leeway to spare his feelings. ‘Is he?’ Troy said simply.
Milligan reddened, visibly. Tightened his fist round the double whisky he had not yet touched. ‘I’ll tell you what I told Jack. No. Absolutely fuckin’ not! Do you think I’d accept a bent copper in my nick? Do you think that because a bloke’s a bit flash, dresses well, he’s automatically on the take? No, Freddie, no!’
Paddy’s glass shattered in his hand. A jet of blood and Scotch shot out across the table. Troy looked up. The whole room was staring at them now. Troy stared back until the heads turned away and the bar-room buzz began again. He passed a clean handkerchief to Paddy, watched as he staunched the cuts to his hand, wiped at his cheeks, red with rage, wet with grief.
‘We had to ask,’ Troy whispered.
Milligan whispered back, ‘I know, I know. Somebody tipped you off, nobody’s sayin’ who . . .’ Again tears welled in his eyes, he bent his head and his voice rumbled in his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Freddie. I really am. I’d better go.’
Troy placed a hand on his arm and gently held him. ‘There’s still something to be done.’
Milligan raised his head, a mask of pain and misery. ‘What?’
‘I can talk to Onions. Onions can talk to the chief constable in Lancashire, the ACC in Liverpool. We can get you a transfer.’
‘There’s nothing. I asked. If I asked once I asked a dozen times.’
‘Manchester, then? Warrington? Preston?’
Milligan drew deep breaths, calmed himself before answering. ‘Truth to tell, I didn’t look that far afield. All I could see was being there. Me being there, in the ‘Pool. With me dad in the ‘Pool.’
‘But you could,’ Troy proceeded slowly, ‘handle things from Warrington or Manchester or. . .’
‘I suppose so. It’s just that all I could think of was
‘Then let me handle it. I’ll talk to Onions. I’ll get you the transfer.’
‘Can you really do that, Freddie?’
‘Of course,’ Troy lied. ‘But there’s one other thing I need to know.’
‘Right.’
‘The Ryan twins. Did Jack ask you about them?’
‘Yep. And I told him. We’ve had those two marked since they got out of the army. They’re villains right enough, but small-time. They live in Watney Street – half of Watney Street is crooked. I reckon they ring cars and fence a bit of stuff. They’ve got a garage under the arches in Shadwell. I’ve raided them a couple of times. Never been able to catch ‘em. But it’s only a matter of time.’
‘So, they’re not the East End’s new Mr Big?’
‘Freddie, it’s good of you to try and cheer me up, and funny as that is I really don’t feel like laughin’ right now.’
57
Onions was not in a good mood. ‘Why is Milligan pestering you? Doesn’t he know you’re off sick?’
‘He’s not pestering me. We had a couple of drinks in the pub and it all came out,’ Troy lied. ‘Stan, trust me. Do this for me.’
‘Hasn’t he had any leave?’
‘I believe he’s had lots of leave, but the fact remains he needs more.’
‘OK, OK. If I agree to this, though God knows why I should, then there are consequences and there are questions.’
‘Of course.’
‘Who’s number two at Stepney and is he capable of running a nick until we get someone in or promote some lucky sod?’
‘He’s called Al Mazzer, and the answer’s no. He can’t be allowed to run a nick and he shouldn’t be promoted.’
‘You know the bloke?’
‘Never met him.’
‘Then whatever it is you’re not tellin’ me I think you’d better tell now.’
Troy told him. Jack would just have to live with it. He could almost see Onions’s fuse catch light.
‘What? What? On the word of a constable who’s still wet behind the ears?’
‘Yes.’
‘Freddie, I do not take lightly to my coppers being called crooked. I want hard evidence before I act on stuff like that.’
‘I believe Robertson.’
‘Freddie, you’ve never met the man. I’m not pointing the finger at a copper on the word of a green recruit.’
‘Then you and Jack think as one. You are in the majority. But all I’m asking is that you do nothing. I’m not saying haul him in, kick him out. I’m saying leave him exactly where he is.’
Silence.
‘You can do that, Stan. Can’t you?’
‘I can. But that still leaves us without a DDI for Stepney.’
‘An outsider. Someone who’s never worked in London before.’
‘Who?’
‘Let me sleep on it.’
58
In ‘56 Troy had investigated a case in the north of England. A furniture salesman from a one-horse town in the middle of Derbyshire had vanished, and the wife had appealed to Troy. Unfortunately Troy had found not a live if straying husband but a dead frogman, and he’d found him underneath a Russian battleship in Portsmouth harbour. The ramifications of this had rumbled on for weeks. It had been a diplomatic incident. Out of it came two visits to Belper, Derbyshire. One had resulted in his relationship with Foxx, the other in a debt of gratitude to a young policeman, who had defied his bosses to help Troy. Troy had kept in touch with Detective Sergeant Ray Godbehere. Sooner or later, he knew, there would be a way to repay the debt.
‘It’s been a while, Mr Troy,’ Godbehere said. ‘I almost thought you’d forgotten me.’
‘No, a few months, surely.’
‘No, sir, it’s more than a year since you last rang.’
‘And have there been changes?’
‘What? In this nick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Warriss is due to retire next year. I don’t believe he intends to recommend me for the promotion in his stead, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Your accent. Are you a local man?’
‘Not exactly. I’m from Sheffield.’
‘Any particular prejudice against London?’
‘Lead me to it.’
‘Fine. Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you later today.’
‘Mr Troy, not so fast. You can’t just dangle this in front of me without a clue as to what it is.’
‘You’re the new divisional detective inspector of Stepney. I’ll get your file plonked in front of the commissioner later today, and when he rubber-stamps it I’ll call you back.’
‘And I’m supposed to concentrate on me job in the meantime? Bloody hell.’
‘No, Mr Godbehere, you’re supposed to pack.’
59
Forty-eight hours passed.
Onions called with a terse ‘You’d better be right about this bloke.’ Jack called with a terser ‘Cunt.’
60
Troy could not face another meeting in the Chandos. It had, in so short a time, achieved too symbolic a value. He would always associate it with the physical dissolution of Brock, and the spiritual dissolution of Milligan. When Godbehere called he suggested instead the pub nearest his own house – the theatreland watering hole, the Salisbury in St Martin�
�s Lane, a plush, mirrored, gilded boozer in the high Victorian style.
He watched Godbehere at the bar, wondering if at thirty he’d had that same young, determined look about him. He knew he had, he just found it so hard to remember. It was like an age of innocence, and that, too, was in the nature of an illusion. He’d never been innocent, as Kolankiewicz reminded him once or twice a year when the vodka had washed away the last vestiges of the old man’s caution.
Godbehere slapped down a ginger beer in front of Troy and a large vodka for himself.
‘Are you settled in?’
‘I’ve digs across the river in Southwark. I never think it pays to live on the manor. I’ve a room in a house practically on top of Borough Tube station.’
‘Underground,’ Troy said. ‘Only tourists call it the Tube.’
‘I think there are one or two at Leman Street nick who think I might be a tourist.’
‘Have they made you welcome?’
‘The air of resentment is so thick you could stuff it in your pipe and smoke it. But that’d be true of any nick you could post me to. It won’t last. I’m in charge and they know it. Mr Wildeve came round in person on the first day. I felt anointed. If he doesn’t want me there he’s not letting on.’
‘I don’t think Jack knows what he wants.’
‘Can I be frank, sir?’
‘Of course, and drop the “sir”.’
‘Then,’ Godbehere went on, ‘I don’t think that matters. You’re calling the shots. It’s what you think that matters. And you do know what you think or I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be stuck in Derbyshire still wondering if I’d make it past sergeant.’
‘Quite.’
‘You got me down to the Smoke for a purpose. I’m curious to know what.’
‘What has Jack told you?’
‘He was blunt. Very blunt. Told me he thinks my predecessor fucked up in spades. Filled me in on the problem with the Ryans. Made it clear I’d got my work cut out, and told me to have no hesitation, “none whatsoever,” I think he said, in calling in the Yard when I saw fit.’
‘And your detective sergeant?’
‘Mr Mazzer? He told me to watch Mr Mazzer. Wouldn’t go any further than that. Warned me he’d been passed over for promotion and there was bound to be friction.’
‘It’s more than that,’ said Troy. ‘Mazzer’s bent. Jack is being exceptionally cautious in not warning you of that. That, after all, is why you’re here. Report to Jack what you see fit, but report everything to me. I don’t want Mazzer watched, I want him cut out. I want him marginalised until I know what he’s up to. And I want him to know as little as possible of your investigation into the Ryans. Tomorrow you’ll get a call from a chap called George Bonham. He was station sergeant at Leman Street for years. Meet him at his flat. Tell no one what you’re doing. He’ll put you in touch with every East End nark he knows. You’re to build up a dossier. I want to know everyone who works for the Ryans, every job that can reasonably be put down to them, all their assets, every piece of property they own, every bank account they have, everyone who’s ever so much as taken a tanner from them.’
‘You think Mr Mazzer’s taken the odd tanner?’
‘I’d like to say I know it in my bones. But I can’t. It’s a hunch. Not a guess or a longshot. A hunch. And I’ve gambled a lot persuading the commissioner to act on my hunch. Have you raised the issue of the Ryans with Mazzer?’
‘Oh, aye, I raised it all right.’
‘And?’
‘He told me they were “fly” – that was his word “fly”, “fly and harmless”.’
61
Bruno is tied to a dining chair with gaffer tape. His wife Glenda is also taped to a chair. The difference is that they’ve taped across her mouth too. Bruno can see the flare of her nostrils above the strip of black plastic and the wide-eyed stare of panic in her eyes. She is grunting.
Ryan presses the barrel of his revolver into Bruno’s forehead. ‘I’m gonna ask you one more time, Bruno—’
Tuck you!’
Ryan pulls back the gun and cracks him above the ear with it. ‘Naughty, naughty. Now. Here me out, old son. I’m gonna ask you one more time. You tell me where my money is or your missus gets it.’
‘You wouldn’t d—’
Ryan swings round neatly, levels the gun and shoots Glenda Felucci in the face. Bone and brains splatter out across the wallpaper, a fountain of blood afoot high spurts from the back of her head, the chair goes over backwards and Bruno finds himself looking up the skirt of his dead wife. A grotesque and trivial indecency.
Ryan puts the gun back on Bruno’s forehead, but all Bruno can say is ‘Waa, waa, waa, waa.’
‘Oh, fuckin’ ‘ell. Oh, fuckin’ ‘ell. Bruno! Bruno!’
Ryan slaps him, but all Bruno can say is, ‘Waa, waa, waa, waa.’
‘Oh, fuckin’ ‘ell. Just tape the bugger up, will you?’
‘Shouldn’t we kill him too?’
’If we kill ‘em both, you plonker, we’ll never get our money back, now, will we? Just tape up that clanging manhole. I can’t bear to listen to ‘im.’
It’s forty minutes before the police arrive. The first man in throws up at the sight of Glenda Felucci. The second pulls down her skirt and tears the strip of gaffertape off Bruno’s mouth.
Bruno whispers, ‘Ryan.’
For several hours it is all he says.
3
The Life of You
62
August burnt. A searing sun in a cloudless sky. It was a favourite month of Troy’s. The persistence of childhood. His birthday fell in the last week of August, leaving three whole weeks of anticipation. Even now, when he scarcely bothered to acknowledge birthdays, to see August on the calendar created that same sense of waiting for something. August burnt. He sat on the shady side of the court, read an American novel Kitty had abandoned on his bedside table – Henderson the Rain King, by Saul Bellow. It appeared to be the tale of a man who was partly inspired, partly crazy and completely frustrated. It was not Kitty’s kind of book. It was his kind of book. And he read in the papers of droughts in East Anglia, of peatland fires in Derbyshire, of the extended national tour to the Royals and Empires of provincial Britain by one Vince Christy, of the impending state visit of President Eisenhower – and of the murder of Glenda Felucci in an Essex village and the almost immediate arrest of two unnamed suspects.
And he called Kolankiewicz. ‘What kind of gun killed Bruno’s wife?’
‘A .357. Can we either of us be surprised at that?’
And he waited for the call from Jack that never came. August burnt. August was a month of waiting.
63
Stanley Onions professed a taste for whisky amounting to discernment. Troy knew him better than he knew himself. Onions’s idea of whisky was a cheap blended from an off-licence that he would flood with tap water. Troy cared little for spirits at the best of times and would drink them only to join’ whoever had pulled the cork or twisted the cap. He had done this a lot with Kitty/Kate of late. He could see himself doing it this evening. Onions bulked on his doorstep. Blue suit, black boots, short back and sides, bullet-headed, bull-brained and bear-bodied, a battered brown briefcase under one arm, a bottle of whisky clutched in his hand – the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force disguised as an ordinary copper. The last thing he was. Apart from the odd days when protocol forced him into blue serge and shiny buttons, this outfit, and variations on a theme, were all he ever wore – and it was still a disguise. Onions was an extra-ordinary copper.
‘You goin’ to let me in or do I have to stand here all night?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘You were staring like you’d never seen me before.’
No, thought Troy, like I’ve seen you almost every day for twenty years.
Onions held up the bottle. A treat for the two of them. ‘Get a couple of glasses and a jug, lad. I’m gasping.’
This was a lie. If Stan had been �
��gasping’ he’d have put on a brown mac and a cloth cap and sunk a couple of pints in a West End pub, safe in the knowledge that the sharpest reporter in Fleet Street was unlikely to recognise him. Just another displaced Lancashire lad. If he turned up with whisky, he was up to something.
Troy came back from the kitchen. A drowned Scotch for Stan, on a rock for himself.
‘Don’t know how you can drink it like that. Ice with everything. American nonsense. Cheers.’
As far as Troy was concerned, one ice cube thinned out whisky all it needed to be thinned. He didn’t mention that while Stan was swilling a mixture of London tap and corner-shop blended he had helped himself to a shot of Angus’s single-malt seven-year-old Skye Talisker. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
The sofa screamed as Onions flopped his bulk down on to it.
‘How are you keepin’?’
Well, thought Troy, begin with the obvious. ‘My vision’s blurred. Sometimes, particularly if I’ve slept well, it’s close to normal in the mornings. But I don’t sleep well. I end up exhausted and catnapping during the day. My appetite’s erratic. One day I’m Jack Spratt, and next I’m his wife. And my balance is still a bit off, but I don’t really need a stick to walk any more. It’s just belt and braces. My memory’s fine now, my blood pressure is normal and I have a resting pulse at a healthy fifty-five. My libido’s through the roof. . .’
‘Lib-what?’
‘Forget it. Oh, and I’ve got these for reading.’ He plucked a pair of glasses off the mantelpiece. Stuck them on the end of his nose. Onions looked overwhelmed by the torrent of words. ‘Corrects my eyes enough to read. The optician says I won’t need them once my brain recovers from the knock and gets its wires uncrossed.’
‘I’d hang on to them if I were you. Forty-three? You’ll need reading glasses by the time you’re fifty. I did.’
‘How cheery. I feel so much better for you sharing that snippet with me.’
Onions let this go. ‘So . . .’ he said. ‘The upshot of that Nobel Prize acceptance speech is that you’re not too bad?’