by Jane Goodall
‘He sprained his ankle?’ She repeated the words mechanically. ‘Tragic, isn’t it?’
She got back to the point. ‘But we need to know a whole lot more about this Yeller outfit. And if they’re based in the World’s End, that’s up to BD division, isn’t it?’
‘Not if the case is being handled at commander level.’
‘But it can’t be. Not under the new regs. It should go through the station chief super. Even Macready has to keep to the protocols.’
‘No need to start reciting the abc, Briony. Of course your DCS has been briefed, but this enquiry is not going through the normal command structure. Macready’s in consultation with the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, so it’s all above our heads.’
‘Then what did you call me up for if the DAC’s Ops is involved?’
‘Well.’ He hunched his shoulders, squeezing his hands between his knees. ‘Macready’s not asking you to be on the case — not as such. But he wants you to know about it.’ Steve gave her one of his flirtier smiles.
*
As she marched up the hill, the drizzle had lightened and some late sunrays were reappearing, but she hardly noticed them as her pace quickened in response to her thoughts. Macready was not asking her to be on the case, but he wanted her to know about it? Didn’t make sense. A flash of anger shot through her. That wasn’t Macready’s determination, it was Steve’s. Pushing her out of the way as usual. He’d have made the suggestion, following it up with some phony psychological reasoning, and Macready probably decided not to argue with him. Just as she was thinking she’d finally got through the obstacle course of her early career, here she was being drawn back into the old jostling and manoeuvring.
Walking on with hunched shoulders, hands plunged deep into her pockets, she looked up briefly and saw an elderly man coming towards her at a leisurely stroll, smiling.
‘Cheer up,’ he said as they passed. ‘It might never happen.’
Spontaneously, an answering smile appeared on her face. Then, adjusting her footsteps to an easier trot, she turned her face up to the evening sun. What a dill. As if she actually wanted to be drawn into the deep waters of a Macready special, just the week before her holiday.
10
As Briony got off the bus in the Fulham Road, she had to negotiate her way past a group of teenage girls, chattering excitedly, reminding her that it was Saturday morning and other people were starting their weekend. The girls were dressed to the nines: pink flared hipsters, satin hotpants, platform shoes, huge bobble earrings ... She smiled, thinking how her own little fashion adventure paled in comparison.
As she passed through the CID room, the boss opened his office door and called her over. Detective Chief Superintendent Fletcher was a slightly built man in his fifties with a neat, quiet style. She had always got on well with him, but with a sense that something was missing somewhere. Maybe it was just that, working for Macready, she’d grown used to the grit and the edge of a difficult personality and by comparison DCS Fletcher seemed bland and uninspired.
‘Just had a call from C1,’ he said. ‘I gather you’ve been in touch with them.’
‘Yes, sir, in connection with the body part we found under Battersea bridge. You remember I briefed you on that.’
‘I do. But I don’t remember being informed of your intention to contact C1.’
‘It was only some basic liaison, sir, following a fingerprint ID.’
‘Cl can be very touchy, Briony. And they’re especially touchy about anything connected with the Daltry gang. They got some ugly press over all that, remember? Any suggestion that there’s still a vendetta going on would reflect badly on them.’
‘But we haven’t even confirmed the identity of the body yet. Denis was going over to Brixton to check — ’
Fletcher interrupted. ‘Cl have beaten him to it. They’ve had chatties with the prison governor and with Pavan and they’re taking over the case. I’ve made Denis available to assist with any enquiries on BD’s patch. Len Dignall was supposed to be going to his sister’s place in Leicester, so they need to find out what he was doing down this way.’
‘Do we know what he was doing with a tin padlock on his ankle?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t think they still ran chain gangs in Brixton.’
The joke was wasted on Fletcher. He passed a sheet of paper across the desk, a pink form filled in by hand, with a passport-sized photo attached in the corner. ‘This is the description of what he was wearing on the day of his release. Usual prison issue stuff Brown suit, open-necked shirt, brogue-style brown shoes — we’ve got a positive ID on that shoe Denis found.’
Briony stared at the photo. A nice looking youth with dark eyebrows and strong features. ‘He’s still only twenty-four,’ she said. ‘This is becoming a popular area for young people to get lost in. Maybe he wanted to change his image.’ She handed back the sheet. ‘Is that all, sir?’
‘Not quite.’ Fletcher laced his hands together on the desk in front of him. ‘I’ve also been talking to Commander Macready. I understand you’ve been told about this Deff Row nonsense. I know I don’t need to tell you to keep your wits about you, Briony. But I am telling you to take special care. It’s a good thing you’ve got that holiday coming up — you’ll be best off out of the way for a while. All right.’ He stood up. ‘That’s it for now.’
She left feeling intensely irritated. ‘Best off out of the way for a while’ — as if she was some piece of furniture. Catching sight of Aidan over by the filing cabinets, she asked him to find Denis and come to her office.
The copy of Yeller was sitting on her desk and she turned to the Deff Row page, thinking through her dilemma. Was it a good idea to show this to Denis and Aidan? Steve had no right to veto it, and anyway, there was no point in trying to keep something back from the evidence table when it was in public circulation just down the road. But actually, she wasn’t that keen to put it into the hands of her colleagues immediately. Better to wait and see what the two men could find of their own accord, if she sent them hunting. She swept it into a drawer as they arrived.
It was easy enough to explain the mission to them in general terms: they were to go to the Triangle before the concert started tonight, and observe the crowd.
‘I want a general report on what’s going on,’ she said.
‘How can I go down there in this?’ Denis indicated the shirt he was wearing, which was bright green and cut like a pyjama jacket. ‘I’ll get lynched.’
‘Then change it. This is important, Denis. We’ve had that much trouble recently, we need to know more about what’s stirring everybody up and who’s doing the stirring.’
‘What’s stirring them up is that dreadful bloody racket they listen to. And the dancing. They jump up and down like loonies — it shakes their brains free of their brain pans.’
‘Yes, well ... I’ve got a feeling there might be a bit more to it, Denis. There’s all this literature they’ve got circulating. Fanzines. See if you can collect some. And I want to know about the bands playing down there. I’ve heard you take a bit of an interest in the music scene, Aidan. Is that right?’
‘I’ve done time with a local band.’
‘Do you know about the groups who play at the Triangle?’ Aidan had his head turned profile, looking at the street below. ‘Usual suspects. The Rabies, Sex Pistols, the Knackers, Clash. Most of them have put in an appearance at the Triangle. But none of them’s playing what you’d call music.’
‘Let’s not waste time arguing definitions, shall we? I’m not talking about what I call music, Aidan. Or you, for that matter. I’m talking about what passes for music amongst a certain type of people. Give me a straight answer, will you? I’m asking if you know anything about that scene.’
He turned to face her. ‘I don’t mean any disrespect, ma’am. The business down there at the Triangle isn’t music. It’s anarchy. They think anarchy’s an easy game. Make a lot of racket. Chuck a bit of hardware about. Get a bloody nose to fancy up the front of grand
addy’s white vest that you’re wearin. Child’s play.’
‘So is that all it is? Child’s play?’
‘Children play all sorts of games. Some of them get nasty. You’re asking what I know about — I’ve had a bit of an acquaintance with one of those bands. The Knackers. They tried to butt in on the carnival last year. They don’t know anybody in Notting Hill. They don’t know anything about it. They come in, smack around the place with a lot of tin dustbin lids, break a few windows and — hey presto — the police is descending on everybody like they’re all equally responsible.’
Aidan’s speech was heating up, and Briony realised he was tapping into some background that might not be helpful right now, especially since he felt so strongly about it. ‘All right, Aidan,’ she said. ‘So they’re provocateurs. We all know the type. I want to know a bit more about what they’re provoking around here.’ She stood up, to signal that the discussion was over.
Denis slowly peeled his bulky frame off the chair and looked at Aidan. ‘She’ll have us dolled up in chains and safety pins if we don’t watch out. You heard, didn’t you? I’ve already been ordered to change me shirt.’
‘Sensible advice,’ said Aidan. ‘Green doesn’t suit you man. It’s diabolical.’
11
Sharon managed to sit by rolling her legs off the edge of the mattress then pushing herself sideways, but she had to catch her head in both hands before it fell back. It was so heavy she couldn’t think how she normally managed to hold it up, just balanced on the end of her neck. Besides which her neck ached like hell. The worst thing, though, was her ear. She didn’t remember it hurting at all last night when she pushed the safety pin through it.
‘Pinch hard. No, really hard, till the skin goes white, then just push it in.’ That was what Annie told her. Now she could feel the swollen flesh and the thick shaft of the pin, and with her eyes closed she could see it in close-up, like on a cinema screen with a throbbing noise on the soundtrack.
She remembered where she was, but she wasn’t getting too clear a picture of what happened last night. A lot of people had come round. Late, when it was dark and she was already falling asleep in the armchair, a party started. Sharon drank a bottle of beer, then someone gave her some pills, with a swig of Coke to wash them down. That was about as much as she could piece together.
A pair of feet went past her, in clompy shoes. Clomp clomp clomp across the floor. Then again, back the other way.
‘Hello.’ The person wearing the shoes was standing in front of her. Annie. She helped Sharon to her feet and guided her through to the sitting room, where she fell into the nearest armchair.
‘Did you take uppers or downers?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, never mind.’
Sharon looked at herself. The clothes she’d slept in were ripped much worse than before, especially the tights, which were just a bunch of threads now, digging into her skin. She pulled them off and tossed them away. ‘Would you have anything else I could wear?’ she asked.
Annie did some more clomping about and came back with a bundle of stuff — a couple of t-shirts with holes in them, a pair of football socks and the tartan skirt. Sharon inspected it, fingering the straggling threads from where it had been cut off at the hem. ‘Is this really up for grabs?’
‘Sure. You can wear it if you want. See you tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘At the Triangle.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Jeez! You’re not exactly on the ball, are you?’
Sharon heard her clomping down the stairs and across the floor below, then she must have gone back to sleep, because when she came to again there was somebody else walking around. This time it was Zig.
Feeling the need to demonstrate that she wasn’t a cot case, Sharon moved into action and started putting on the clothes she’d been given. Since the boots were a size too big, and since the feet on the football socks were worn pretty thin, she was able to get herself half in, but couldn’t do the buckles up. So she had to take the safety pins out of her other clothes and use them as fasteners, skewering them through the leather.
‘Hurry up,’ said Zig. ‘We’ll be late.’
‘What for?’ asked Sharon as she followed down the stairs.
‘Lunch. If Flak doesn’t want a free lunch, I do.’
The Chelsea Drugstore was not the sort of place where they’d expect you to make an appearance in a torn tartan skirt with a safety pin through your ear. That was obvious from the steely chic look of the exterior, so when they walked in Sharon was prepared for some reaction. Zig went first. She wasn’t wearing rubber today, but the spiked hair and make-up were enough to get heads turning. She acted exactly like she had on the bus — as if the people staring at her didn’t even exist. Sharon did likewise, and found it worked for her. She was enjoying this. No one actually said anything, they just looked.
Logan Royce was sitting at a table by the window, and from the expression on his face he was enjoying the spectacle of their entrance.
‘Flak’s not coming,’ Zig announced as she took one of the seats opposite him. ‘So we’re here instead. I’m Zig, she’s Sharon.’ She picked up the menu and began to study it.
‘Hi,’ said Logan. ‘You were in the pub last night. I remember. But I don’t believe we’ve actually been introduced. What say I leave you ladies to have your lunch in peace?’ He looked at his watch. ‘I got things to attend to.’
‘It’s hot in here.’ Zig unzipped her jacket and took it off, revealing a string vest with a black bra underneath. The effect of this manoeuvre on Logan was instant. The smile spread across his face and he relaxed back into his chair.
‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘I remember you.’
A waiter was hovering and Zig said sharply, ‘I’ll have a club sandwich with bacon and chilli sauce and a pint of Pepsi.’
‘I’m afraid we only do the club sandwiches listed there. Bacon lettuce and tomato, steak and egg, salmon and watercress — ’
Logan interrupted. ‘Surely you have a bottle of chilli sauce in that kitchen of yours?’
‘Well, I suppose we do,’ the waiter conceded.
‘Excellent. Sharon, what will you have?’
‘Chips,’ said Sharon, who hadn’t actually looked at the menu. ‘And a Pepsi.’
The waiter held his pencil poised and repeated the order briskly.
‘And I’ll have the BLT,’ said Logan.
‘Sir?’
‘Bacon lettuce and tomato in London-speak.’ Logan looked from Zig to Sharon and back, then fished in his pocket and took out a dog-eared notebook. ‘You realise that if I’m picking up the tab here, this is a working lunch?’
‘Working means talking, yeah?’ said Zig, still preoccupied with the menu.
‘Yeah. And I get to decide the topic of conversation. What do you know about Flak? He’s got a few tricks up his sleeve, huh?’
Zig closed the menu and looked up. ‘Can you write fast? Yes he does have a few tricks up his sleeve because he used to work in the music hall when he was a kid. Then he worked in the circus and then he went to art school and then he dropped out.’
‘Dropped out of where?’ asked Logan. ‘Which art school?’
‘You name it, he’s dropped out of it. Bromley, Hammersmith, City and Guilds, Middlesex Poly, Luton, Chelsea
‘I get the point. But he’s local to here, huh? According to the lyrics he was brought up in Slash and Burn Street. Where’s that supposed to be?’
‘Slaidburn Street. Where they used to have the bonfires on Guy Fawkes night.’
‘So he’s working in a fine old tradition. My magazine is interested in him because he’s the manager of Sudden Deff but I need to know about the members of that group.’
Zig snorted. ‘Nice try.’
‘Closely guarded secret, huh? Sure works as a publicity stunt — at least temporarily. But it can’t last. I’ve already met Kaiser without his mask on. Where do the masks come from?’
‘Some place in Huddersfi
eld.’
Logan’s pencil wasn’t moving. ‘Not the leather masks — the other ones — the arty ones.’
Zig shrugged, her face expressionless.
‘Well if I find out I might tell ya ... ’ He gave her a sleazy look. ‘If I’m in the mood. Got me a coupla ideas on that one.’
There was a pause. Sharon could see he was trying to play on their curiosity and she knew Zig wouldn’t want to bite, so she took the cue herself.
‘What sort of ideas?’ she asked.
He smiled knowingly. ‘Somebody makes em. Someone who’s quite an artist. Mixed up kind of a dude who thinks he’s William Blake.’ Logan was looking at Zig, not at Sharon. ‘Know anyone like that?’
Zig stared at the fork she was playing with on the table. ‘William Blake,’ Logan continued, ‘Tyger, tyger, burning bright. Funny how sayings of his keep turning up in Yeller.’
‘Do they?’ said Zig flatly.
Logan pounced. ‘Don’t play dumb with me, honey. There’s some pretty smart operators in this punk movement. They read all kinds of stuff. Shakespeare, Dickens, Blake. All grist to those dark satanic mills. Who’s the Blakehead?’ There was silence, broken by the appearance of the waiter with the drinks.
‘I thought you wanted to talk about hate culture,’ said Sharon, when the waiter had passed on.
‘Oh, yeah. Flak’s quite a player in that, wouldn’t you say? I tell you what I really want to know.’ He fixed his eyes on Sharon and lowered his voice. ‘I want to know how far he’d take it. Because some of these gigs of his have gotten pretty extreme, from what I’ve heard. Snuff gigs — that’s what they’re calling them.’
Zig put her glass down with a clunk. ‘Who said that?’
Logan smiled. ‘Who said that? Well, I believe Mr Kaiser said something like that to me. You know, he doesn’t strike me as a happy camper, that boy.’