by Lawton, John
‘No, Maurice, they’re not. Not until someone names them.’
‘OK – all but slandered, a gnat’s bollock away from slandered. But they’re good blokes, we need ‘em. There has to be some way to set the record straight.’
It was a stunning speech. Rod would have been jealous of Maurice on the hustings. Troy could not see his brother-in-law falling for it for one second.
‘Rough diamonds, eh, Maurice?’
‘If you like. I’d call ‘em a new breed of entrepreneur. But rough diamond sounds kosher enough for me.’
‘Maurice, I’m a working-class kid. Don’t let the accent and the tie fool you. Listen to my surname. Stafford was Steafaoin when my dad was fresh off the boat in 1899. I was the sort of kid who could pass exams. I got a scholarship to Merchant Taylor’s, and then a scholarship to Oxford. An education that my family could no more have paid for than they could have bought the moon. I’ve no more ignored or forgotten my origins than you have and, like you, I’ve the odd blot on my record as a child. Things I did that I deeply regret and that I’ll be embarrassed to see in my own obituary if the buggers I work with are ever so crass as to show it to me. But the past is a foreign country. No one spreads rumours about me being involved in rackets. And to ask me to accept that the level of rumour that now engulfs London is simply the result of some sort of class prejudice or police conspiracy against two upright citizens is beyond belief. I don’t know what you think I can do for you. But it isn’t creating or correcting a story, it’s killing a story. A story is either an abortion or a living, breathing, kicking, screaming thing with a life of its own. I don’t know how you kill it. And there’s nothing you can say would ever make me want to try.’
Troy knew an exit line when he heard one. The meeting was surely over. Lawrence had just fired the final broadside. Time to make himself known. He raced upstairs and sat on the bottom step of the next flight trying to give the impression that he’d been there for some time. When the dining-room door opened, Rod emerged followed by Lawrence. He was clearly about to utter some sort of apology to Lawrence when he noticed Troy. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘Long enough,’ said Troy.
‘Are you going into town, Freddie?’ Lawrence said. ‘We could share a cab.’
They ducked out sharply. Neither of them turned round, but Troy knew that Rod was standing on the doorstep staring at them all the way to the end of the road.
Lawrence flagged a cab. ‘Your place or mine?’
‘I think it’s time we went to your office. Two cups of coffee and a typewriter, and tell them to hold the morning edition.’
‘Fleet Street,’ Lawrence said to the cabbie.
When they’d moved off Lawrence said nothing for a while. As they came within sight of King’s Cross he said, ‘Is that what you wanted?’
‘Wanted?’ said Troy. ‘It’s certainly not what I expected. Although Rod’s capacity to behave like an ass should surprise neither of us.’
This seemed to hit the mark. There was thinly held rage in Lawrence’s next remark: ‘What did those stupid buggers expect me to do? They call in the editor of a national newspaper to ask him to kill a story that’s already the talk of the town? And I have to sit there and listen to Rod defend the reputations of a couple of crooks? What the hell was he thinking?’
‘I think you could say he wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem. Rod is a believer. The number of things in which he is willing to believe, either temporarily or as a matter of lifelong commitment, are legion. One of which is that, by and large, people tell him the truth.’
‘Since you put it that way … I still find it hard to believe you’re related. And I’ve known the two of you for twenty-five years.’
72
Troy talked. Lawrence typed. Troy was envious of the electric typewriter. At the Yard only Onions’s secretary had anything so modern. Most coppers, Swift Eddie excepted, typed badly with two fingers. Lawrence could type quicker than Troy could think.
Every so often a girl with a ponytail and a flared skirt would bring them coffee. At ten to two on the Sunday morning she brought no coffee but tapped on the glass face of her wristwatch.
‘She thinks we’re cutting it fine,’ Lawrence said.
‘That’s OK. I think I’ve finished.’
The Sunday Post
I speak as an outsider, as many of my critics would surely remind me, were I not so pre-emptive, but rarely in my years in London have I been witness to such a tidal surge in rumour, to the manufacture of stories seemingly without detail or substance. I am put in mind of the ingenious fabrications of Titus Oates – no, not that one, the other one – but the elaborate lies of an individual, however much believed, cannot fairly be compared to what appears to be a collective body of opinion that has set itself to the half-telling of a tale. And therein lies the problem. Why is this tale of which we have all read in the last week only half told?
To avoid confusion, permit me to essay a short summary of the rumour that appears to have seized Fleet Street. There is a new power in the criminal underworld. Following the conviction of one Alfred Marx, whose deeds my papers have reported at length elsewhere, a new, younger breed of thug has taken control of the East End of London. Not content with this, they are said to have taken over by force one of Mayfair’s more fashionable nightclubs, and to have entertained there members of both Houses of Parliament. Furthermore, the interest of the police in these men has led to no charges – yet the rumours persist that these men are responsible for two, and possibly three murders in recent weeks. I doubt any of you would argue with my summary, terse though it is.
My point, however, is not simply to repeat the rumour and list the allegations. It is to ask questions. Where, if not with Scotland Yard itself, do these rumours originate? If these men are responsible, why have they not been charged? If they are not responsible, why have the gentlemen of Fleet Street been made privy to what I can only describe as an ullage of information and disinformation? There is something wrong with both our press and police force if the relationship has turned into an unproductive symbiosis. It surely runs counter to the public interest.
Hence I say to Scotland Yard – charge these men or stop feeding the grinding wheels of rumour.
Hence I say to my colleagues in Fleet Street, name these men and take the consequences or stop doing the bidding of an inefficient ally who, having failed in the course of natural justice, is seeking the mere appearance of justice by other means.
And, since it has ever been this paper’s policy not to ask of others what it would not readily give itself, the men in question are Patrick and Lorcan Ryan of Watney Market in Shadwell. The club they are said to own is the Empress, in Mayfair, and the company they keep includes such luminaries as Edward, Lord Steele and Mr Maurice White.
Troy hesitated over the last name. Lawrence had stopped typing and was waiting, fingers poised to hear if there was going to be more. Troy wasn’t naming Driberg. Lawrence was refraining from reminding him of this. Troy was not going to name Driberg. Perhaps he owed him that favour. And there remained the problem of the signature. It seemed just a tad too much to expect Lawrence to put his name to this, even though he undoubtedly would if asked. Troy certainly couldn’t sign it himself. And he had dictated it, consciously or not, in the style, the particular style, of one journalist. No, there was only one name that would do. He leaned over Lawrence and typed with two fingers. . .
Alexei Troy
‘Are you sure?’ said Lawrence.
‘It’s what my father would have done. What he would have said.’
‘Really? I’m not sure Alex would have known a word like “symbiosis”. I had to think how to spell it myself
‘If he’d known the Russian for it, then he would also have known the English.’
Lawrence tore the page from the roller and glanced quickly down it with the eye of an accomplished speed-reader. ‘Rod’ll play hell.’
‘Let him.’
�
��You know, I’ve never published a piece under the name of a man who’s been dead for fifteen years before.’
Troy said nothing.
‘But . . . we’ll do it. If they sue they sue.’
‘We can afford it. Besides, we haven’t libelled either Spoon or Maurice. They won’t like it but it’s hardly libel. They do keep the company of the Ryans. You and I have both seen Spoon with them. And I doubt there’ll be any shortage of witnesses to their relationship with Maurice. The only people who can possibly sue are the Ryans. Even then I’m not sure it’s libellous. We’re not saying they’re crooks. We’re printing what might be called common knowledge.’
‘Au contraire— I think it’s uncommon knowledge. And I’d hate to be the one to go into court and claim gossip and tittle-tattle as prior publication.’
Troy said nothing.
‘And, of course, all my so-called colleagues in Fleet Street will tell me I stitched them up.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s dog eat dog and they know it.’
73
Troy had just yanked his copy of the Post from the letter-box. He had set down his first cup of coffee of the day and had flipped forward to see his father’s name in print once more. It worked. It worked magnificently. It filled half a column on the left-hand side of page twelve, and it made his skin rise up in goose pimples. He had brought the past to life when he set his hand to signing that name, and put a shiver up his own spine. The telephone rang. It was Rod. Of course it was Rod. But in his present mood he would not have been much surprised to hear his father’s voice.
‘You shit. You conniving little shit!’
‘What makes you think it was me?’
‘Lawrence would never have used the old man’s name! You shit, you—’
Troy hung up on him.
Ten minutes later he had reread his first piece of journalism since his own stint on the Post in 1934 and found he had no regrets. The phone rang again. It was Onions.
‘How are you?’
‘OK.’
‘Good. Get yourself over the Yard. The MO wants to see you.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘I want you back on the force before the day’s over. Get to the MO and get yourself signed off.’
‘Supposing he—’
‘He’ll do what he’s bloody well told.’
‘Fine,’ said Troy, expecting Stan to ring off. But he didn’t. Troy could hear the lurking sentence.
‘You couldn’t have stopped him?’
‘Stan, even if I’d known what Lawrence was up to I would have had no way of stopping him. He doesn’t work for me. He doesn’t work for Rod.’
‘I work for the bloody Home Secretary. He’s been kicking my arse all morning. Just get signed off and get back.’
Then he did ring off.
A small voice in Troy’s head said, ‘Game and set.’ Nothing would make him invoke the hubris of ‘match’.
He was shaving when the phone rang yet again.
Rod said, ‘Just tell me what you know. I can’t pretend Ted Spoon is a friend, but he’s a colleague. Like it or not.’
‘It’s quite simple. Mo and Spoon are putting money into development for profit. Watney Street is ripe for the picking. In fact, if they get all the necessary permissions, there is not only a gold-plated business opportunity, there is the possibility of government funds to assist in their fleecing of the East End. They’ll bulldoze the houses, stick the families in high rises and say bollocks to the notion of community. Your so-called public-private partnership just allows them to fleece the taxpayer twice over. Or were you kidding yourself your hand-outs to Mo and Spoon somehow wouldn’t end up in their pockets? It’s too rich to walk away from, or let anyone deter them. Hence they need you. You could be in government any day now – I seem to hear that phrase with an awful regularity. Hence they will deal with gangsters . . . The Ryans are gangsters, they run Watney Street, so Mo and Spoon are paying off the Ryans, in money and protection. Protection works both ways. The Ryans deal in East End protection – “Pay us or we will become the people from whom you need protection.” Mo and Spoon offer the other protection. “Get into bed with us and we will deliver cover for you. We have the ear of Rod Troy, we have the ear of Lawrence Stafford.” Haven’t you worked this out, or has the political prospect of putting one over on the Tories and finally getting the East End into shape blinded you?’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘When Maurice White calls someone a rough diamond he means the man is armed and dangerous. The plain fact of the matter is that Mo and Spoon are courting a couple of murderers. And they know it. I don’t know what cock-and-bull story Maurice came to you with, but you’ve behaved like an ass, a first-rate, bone-headed, gullible ass. He flattered your messianic sensibility, the overweening notion you’ve had all your life that you can set the world to rights. All Lawrence and I did was clear the board so you can see who the players are. Anyone who wants to do business with the Ryans can no longer pretend there isn’t an issue. The bluff Mo tried to pull on you last night won’t ever work again. You know what Maurice White is? I’ll tell you. Kitty’s little brother summed him up nicely at old Edna’s funeral. He said, “Mo’s the man who sold the world.” I could not put it better.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
Rod went silent. All Troy could hear was his breathing. The thought that perhaps he had hit too far below the belt approached his consciousness and crept away again.
At last Rod said, ‘And Ted Spoon. What is he?’
‘I don’t know – yet.’
74
Sarcasm was nothing. Troy could handle sarcasm.
‘I can’t tell you how honoured I am, Chief Superintendent, that you have consented to consult a doctor for the living instead of the Polish ghoul you are wont to favour with your custom. Forgive me if I feel for a pulse. It’s a habit of mine.’
Troy wondered how Sir Ronald Middleton MD, chief medical officer to Scotland Yard, would look with a black eye, and said nothing.
‘I’ve been told to put you back on the force, as I’ve no doubt you know. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to give you the works.’
Middleton held Troy by the wrist and gazed down at a large pocket watch with a sweeping second hand. Then he let the wrist drop and neatly swung the watch back into the pocket of his waistcoat like the music-hall comic Jimmy Edwards. Clearly he’d practised this for hours.
‘Fifty-six,’ he said.
‘Healthy,’ said Troy.
‘A wee bit on the low side. You should be feeling stress right now, natural stress at being in someone else’s hands. A slightly elevated heart-rate would be normal.’
He had one of those pinpoint torch things in his hands now and was shining it first into Troy’s eyes and then into his ears.
‘But you’re not normal, are you, Mr Troy? You’re odd. You’re the clever dick who thinks the rules were made for someone else. Shirt off.’
Middleton tapped on Troy’s naked chest. Listened through the cold end of his stethoscope. Fingered an old scar on his ribcage. ‘Potato peeler, wasn’t it?’ The bastard was smiling now. ‘Or did you think there were secrets at Scotland Yard?’
Troy was definitely going to thump this sod.
‘Drop your trousers.’
‘Is this really necessary?’
‘Drop ‘em, Mr Troy. And when I say cough try your best to oblige me.’
When it was all over and Middleton had exacted a pound of flesh in ritual humiliation, Troy was tying his tie, and Middleton was jotting notes into a file and talking without looking at him.
‘There’s good news and bad news.’
‘And?’
‘Well, the good is that I can pass you back to active service without having to tell the commissioner that it’s against my better judgement and advice. You’re fit, Mr Troy. Surprisingly fit.’
‘So what’s the bad news?’
Middleton looked up. The cat that had go
t at the cream. ‘You’ve been that way for a while. I’d estimate you’ve been AI for at least a couple of weeks. If you’d come to see me then instead of wasting your time with Dr Death, you’d have been back on the force a while ago.’
‘But … I haven’t felt well.’
‘Purely psychological, Mr Troy. All you needed was the prospect of work to make your mind shape up as your body has done. That, after all, is the trouble with the dead – they have bodies, they no longer have minds.’
Middleton slid his glasses way down his nose and looked at Troy over the top. He held out a stamped form. ‘Just let the commissioner have this. Good day to you, Mr Troy.’
75
On automatic pilot, the following morning, Troy slipped his glasses into his top pocket and was reaching for the walking-stick by the hallstand when it hit him – perfect balance, 20/20 vision, a steady hand that stretched out for the walking-stick without so much as a hint of a tremor. Middleton had been right. All he’d needed was to be told. Anna had been right. If she ever listened to him again, he’d tell her as much.
Swift Eddie Clark and Mary McDiarmuid were waiting for him when he got into work. A cup of hot black coffee and a smile.
‘Lose the uniform,’ Troy said to Mary.
‘What?’
‘You’re a detective. Civvies from now on. No point in looking as though you’re on crossing duty.’
Troy stood behind his desk. Looked around. There was blank white paper on his blotting pad, ink in his inkwell, a neat array of ballpoint pens, a glass ashtray full of paperclips, an empty out-tray, a single handwritten note in the in-tray: ‘I’ve sent a copy of my report to your GP. Good luck, Mr Troy – Ronald Middleton.’