The street was deserted. He got into the Austin Healey, started it up by touching the ignition wires together again, and headed towards the West End.
The streets of Hackney were silent and almost devoid of traffic, but as he headed west it became slightly busier. There was still a fair bit of action in Soho. The less successful toms still prowled the pavements looking for clientele, competing for the few late or desperate kerb-crawlers. Several of the clubs were closing, and Charles had to swerve as a drunk ejected by two bouncers almost fell under his wheels. The men laughed, and Charles watched in his rear view mirror as one took a half-hearted kick at the prostrate punter as he tried to crawl out of the gutter.
Charles found a space to park off Wardour Street and walked back towards D’Arblay Street. Fitting snugly in the palm of his right hand was the final purchase he had made that day, a shilling’s worth of pennies in a cardboard tube, fresh from Lloyds Bank on Chancery Lane.
Two young women in costume and tall golden headdresses emerged in a gale of laughter, trailing cigarette smoke and cheap perfume from the back door of a club and got straight into a waiting taxi. The bouncer on the door watched Charles carefully as he passed, and then shut the steel door with a clang. Charles heard shoot bolts being fastened behind him.
Charles rounded the corner and turned into D’Arblay Street, looking for the Starline Model Agency. Parked right in front of him outside a strip club was the gold Mercedes, NF 777. A flashing pink neon sign over the club’s facade told Charles that inside he could find “Live Naked Acts” and a big yellow poster over the blacked out windows further informed him that although this was a private members club, membership could be purchased in the foyer for only ten shillings. Photographs of scantily-clad women in improbable poses were displayed on a board on the pavement.
Two large men stood by the front entrance. Charles noticed that they were unusually alert for that time in the morning, constantly checking up and down the street.
Charles continued slowly past the club, feigning interest in the photographs of the strippers. As he walked past the door he saw, to the right of the foyer, a staircase leading to the first floor and a sign for the Star Line Model Agency, with an arrow pointing upwards.
Charles’s presence seemed to make the two men on the door even more nervous. One, a giant of a black man with a gold ring on each of his 10 fingers, took a step towards Charles. Charles assessed him. At over six feet four and 18 stones he was almost six inches taller and four stones heavier than Charles. Charles wondered what would happen if he had to force his way in. I’ll just bounce off him, he concluded.
‘We’re closing,’ the giant said in a Jamaican accent, looking down on Charles. He leaned even closer to Charles’s face, and Charles smelt aftershave, lots of it. ‘Move on, man.’
‘I’m not going to the club,’ replied Charles, stepping back slightly, and smiling. ‘I need to speak to Mr Fylde.’
‘Who’s asking?’ asked the other man from behind Charles, an extremely fat white man with an improbable quiff and an earring in each ear.
Charles turned. ‘Tell him it’s Charles Holborne.’
The two men looked at one another.
‘Put your hands against the window,’ ordered the white man. Charles did as he was told and allowed himself to be frisked expertly. ‘He’s clean,’ he concluded, and stepped back. The roll of pennies remained undetected.
‘You sure pick your time,’ commented the Jamaican, but he went inside. Through the door Charles watched him lift a telephone on the ticket booth counter and press a button. A second later ringing could be heard from the first floor offices above the club and Charles looked up at the window which cast a rhomboid of yellow light on the pavement.
Charles watched the conversation and after a moment the Jamaican hung up and returned to the pavement. ‘You can go up.’
The two bouncers watched Charles carefully as he went through the door and entered a small lobby smelling of cigarette smoke. At the far end was a black curtain from which emanated the sound of muffled recorded music. A tired hat check girl wearing tight golden shorts, bustier and goosebumps watched from behind the counter as Charles climbed the stairs opposite.
Charles found his eyes travelling up the shapely legs of a female walking down the stairs towards him. Good legs, he thought, though not as toned and muscular as Rachel’s. His eyes travelled further up the girl as the steps between them narrowed and Charles found himself staring at bouncing brown nipples. The bare-breasted dancer paused in her attempt to pull on a gold lamé waistcoat and stopped a couple of steps above Charles. Charles eyes travelled further north to be met by a grimace which might, earlier in the evening, have been a reasonable facsimile of a smile.
‘Piss off, pervert,’ she said in a weary voice, and pushed past him, tucking a heavy breast into place through an armhole.
At the top of the flight was a wooden door with a brass plaque on it saying “Starline Model Agency” and, underneath that in smaller writing, “Mr N Fylde, Managing Director”. That was the name of the director listed at Companies House and presumably the user of the gold Mercedes, NF 777.
Charles knocked on the door. Another Jamaican accented voice from inside said: ‘It’s open.’
Charles went in. He was surprised to find the office well appointed. Light grey carpet covered the floor and the walls were hung with classy black-and-white photographs showing scenes from the race track. In front of him was a large mahogany desk behind which sat a short but powerful black man with a shaved head. He wore a light brown three-piece suit the jacket of which was hung behind him from the back of his leather chair. A gold watch chain pulled tight across his waistcoated belly, and he wore a gold coloured silk tie which Charles rather coveted. A heavy gold chain hung from his neck and his fingers flashed and sparkled with rings. He was evidently counting the night’s takings because as Charles entered he snapped a rubber band around a thick wad of notes, turned, and threw the wad into an open safe on the floor behind him.
‘I thought you said we’d never meet,’ said Fylde rising from his chair, and studying Charles. ‘Anytin’ wrong?’
‘No,’ said Charles. ‘But there’s a loose end or two, and I need a word with Melissa.’
‘That’s not possible,’ replied Fylde, kneeling to the safe. Charles thought he was locking it but a second later Fylde stood up with a pistol in his hand, and pointed it at Charles’s chest.
‘OK. Who da fuck are you, man?’
‘Charles Holborne,’ replied Charles.
‘No you ain’t. De man I deal with talk different.’
Charles nodded. ‘That’s because I am Charles Holborne. Look at your newspaper.’
Charles indicated the Evening Standard at the end of Fylde’s desk. His photo took up the top half of the front page. ‘Whoever you dealt with set me up. And used you and Melissa to do it.’
Fylde looked across and then back at Charles, who had taken off his glasses and put them in his pocket. Fylde shrugged. ‘That ain’t – ’
There was a sudden explosion from downstairs, a woman’s scream, and the sound of glass shattering. Footsteps thundered up the staircase and Charles backed behind the office door at the same instant as it crashed open. From behind the door, through the narrow gap afforded by the hinged edge, he saw on the threshold a short man in a black suit, dark overcoat and a trilby hat, pointing a sawn off shotgun at Fylde.
‘Put that peashooter down,’ he ordered, ‘or I’ll put daylight through you.’
Fylde hesitated for a moment and slowly lowered his right hand, placing his pistol on the desk.
‘Now move to the side.’ Fylde did as he was told. A crash echoed up the staircase from the foyer. The man in the black suit called over his shoulder, his eyes not wavering from Fylde.
‘You okay, Jackie?’
There was no response.
The man in the suit took half a step into the office. Charles nodded at Fylde, who raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly.
Charles launched his considerable weight with all his force into the door and, at the same instant, Fylde ducked. The shotgun exploded, bringing a shower of plaster and dust from the ceiling, but the force of Charles’s unexpected charge knocked the intruder to one side. Charles rammed the door again with his shoulder, hearing a whoosh of air from the chest on the other side of the door as it was compressed between the door and the door jamb. Charles spun around the leading edge of the door but he wasn’t fast enough and the gunman had regained his balance and stepped back half a pace to give himself room to fire again. Charles had no time. He threw a left jab and a straight right with the roll of pennies, using all the weight he could command. The right landed just under the intruders left eye, the blow snapping his head sideways. His eyes rolled up and his knees sagged. He folded vertically onto the grey carpet like a marionette with its strings cut. Charles caught the shotgun before it hit the ground.
The fat doorman appeared at the head of the steps, wheezing, blood trickling from his scalp. He held a pistol in his hand. Fylde had regained his feet and his pistol.
‘You okay, boss?’ asked the doorman.
Fylde crossed the room with surprisingly light steps and rolled the unconscious man onto his back. He turned slowly to look at Charles with surprise.
‘I am now. How many were dere?’
‘Three. Kimani got one outside – but he’s been hurt – knife wound in his side. The third did a runner when he heard the gunshots.’
‘Okay. Drag dis one out and lock him in the van. Then take Kimani to hospital,’ ordered Fylde.
‘What about this geezer?’ he asked, pointing at Charles, who was brushing dust and ceiling plaster off his new jacket.
Fylde looked Charles up and down. ‘I tink we okay, yes, Mr Holborne?’ He held out his hand for the shotgun. Charles turned the weapon over once, shrugged, and handed it over.
‘Too noisy for my taste,’ he said.
‘Yeh,’ said Fylde to the doorman. ‘We okay.’
The doorman started dragging the unconscious man feet first towards the stairs.
‘Hold on a second, please,’ said Charles. Charles patted the man’s inside pockets and from one breast pocket took out a pistol. He searched again and from the other pocket he withdrew a black leather wallet. Charles opened it and found ten crisp brand-new £50 notes. He took two and pocketed them. ‘Cleaning expenses,’ he explained, and he tossed the wallet onto Fylde’s desk. ‘No objections?’ he asked.
This time Fylde shrugged and shook his head. He nodded at his employee and the unconscious man’s head disappeared out of the door and could be heard thumping on each step as he was dragged by his feet to the ground floor.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Charles. ‘It looked as if you were expecting it.’
‘Turf war,’ replied Fylde shortly. ‘The Krays want my business.’ Fylde brushed dust off the edge of his desk and leaned against it, assessing Charles. ‘You really dat steppa? The one all over de papers?’
‘“Steppa?”’
‘Escapee.’
‘Yes.’
Fylde regarded Charles carefully. He shook his head slowly and sniffed. ‘OK. I’s very busy, as you can see. So, here’s the story.’ He spoke swiftly as he busied himself with clearing his desk and locking the safe. ‘A geezer phone. He say he want a girl to fake adultery, you know? So de wife can get a divorce?’
Charles nodded. There was a thriving market in providing the evidence necessary for grounds for divorce, hired co-respondents, photographers and hotels that looked the other way.
‘If me agree, a motorcycle courier will come in twenty minutes with a monkey. All me have to do is supply one classy tom to pose as de mistress a few time. Got to be white, drive a flash car, speak well and dat. Just go in and out dis flat a few times, you know, be noticed? And another monkey tomorrow, if it all go well.’
‘And access to the flat?’
‘Same courier, next day, brings a key and a timetable, when to go, when not to go.’
‘Who was the man?’
‘Me never see him, but, he was white, spoke like you. But not your voice. I can leave a message at an answering service if I need to… for Mr Holborne.’
‘And the girl’s real name?’
Fylde focussed all his attention on Charles again. ‘I ain’t lettin’ you hurt her. Girl just doing a job.’
‘I’m not going to hurt her. Not my style.’
Fylde considered. ‘Shirley Lovesay.’
‘Is she here?’ demanded Charles.
Fylde shook his head. ‘On de Costa. Geezer pays her to lay low. I ’spect her back in de club on Monday.’
‘Did she ever meet him?’
‘I don’t know man, maybe. He give her a few tings to take to your place. Now, I got to attend to business.’
‘Last question: where does she live?’
‘Las’ house on Grafton Road, Kentish Town. Next to de pub.’
‘Thank you. I’ll leave you to clear up.’ Charles turned to leave, but Fylde called after him.
‘Maybe you need a change of career, Mr Brief Man! I can use someone like you.’
Charles turned. ‘I’ll let you know.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Charles sat in the Austin Healey checking out his newly acquired pistol and considering his next move. The pistol was American, a stainless steel AMT Backup made in California. The serial number had been filed off but it had been well maintained. Charles checked the magazine: full – six gold-coloured rounds of 0.38 calibre. It was small and Charles found it fitted snugly in the breast pocket of his jacket without any obvious bulge. He took it out again, turning it over. Not much use at a distance, but as a concealed backup, it was perfect. He wished he had time to find somewhere to test fire it.
Charles turned his attention to Fylde’s story. Wheatley didn’t seem the sort to be interested in loose ends when he already had a nicely packaged prosecution, but even he couldn’t ignore the pimp’s evidence of another man posing as Charles, especially when added to the evidence of Dennis. But that meant Charles first needed a description of whoever was using his name, and that meant waiting until Shirley returned from the Costa Del Sol. Charles doubted he’d have another four days at large before the police caught up with him.
The only thing of which Charles was sure was that he was famished. He looked at his watch. Where to get a decent cheap meal in London at quarter to six in the morning? He smiled to himself, started the engine, and drove back east towards the city.
The streets were getting busier but it took Charles only 15 minutes to reach Smithfield’s meat market. He turned off Farringdon Road and parked in West Smithfield. Under the dome of the new market there was a jam of unloading lorries, porters and men with bloodied overalls and carcasses hefted across their shoulders. Charles had to sidestep swiftly as he was almost run down by a man trotting across the cobbles carrying half a cow. Charles crossed the central courtyard to The Fox and pushed his way through the heavy doors. The pub was half-full of market traders and drivers. The smell of frying steak and beer made Charles’s mouth water immediately.
The Fox was one of half a dozen pubs that opened at 4.00 am specifically for the market trade. Charles had discovered it shortly after the rebuilding of Smithfield finished the previous year on one of his insomniac walks around the city’s deserted streets, and had loved the slice of London underbelly it revealed.
He pushed his way to the long wooden bar, attracting a few glances as he did so. A huge bear of a man took his order for a rare steak sandwich and chips, and served Charles with a pint of mild. Charles threaded his way through the butchers and porters to a small wrought iron table in the corner of the bar. He sat facing into the corner of the room, pulled up his collar and tried to focus on his next step.
He was stuck. He could think of nothing to do but lay low until Monday and hope he could then find Melissa – or Shirley. A harassed waitress brought over his steak and a large pot of mustard, and hand
ed him some cutlery rolled in a paper serviette.
Charles was working his way through his wonderfully bloody steak sandwich when he looked up. In the mirror facing out onto the bar he saw a man staring at him. He was middle-aged, with a few strands of sandy hair combed across a mottled pale scalp and a day’s growth of stubble on a doughy chin. A rollup stuck to his lower lip bobbed up and down like a conductor’s baton as he spoke out of the corner of his mouth to another man at his elbow. He wore a donkey jacket over a blood and fat-streaked white knee-length apron and heavy wellington boots.
Charles considered reaching for the pistol in his inside pocket, but decided against: it would bring things to a head too quickly, and if there was any chance, he wanted to finish his breakfast. Instead he altered his grip on the steak knife, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary. He managed to eat a couple more mouthfuls before he felt a hand touch his shoulder.
‘Alright if I sit down, mate?’
It didn’t look as if he was to be grabbed immediately so Charles muttered ‘Free country,’ through a mouthful of cow, and indicated the chair opposite with the knife. The man pushed past the table and lowered himself onto the seat opposite Charles.
‘We’ve met before,’ said the other, keeping his voice low and not making direct eye contact with Charles.
‘We have?’
‘You represented me brother at the Bailey. Derek Plumber.’ He spoke through lips that barely moved and Charles had to concentrate to catch the words over the hubbub in the bar. It was years since he'd last seen Derek Plumber, but Charles thought he detected some resemblance in the man opposite him; something about his build, and the heavy jaw.
Charles tensed. There was no denying now that he’d been recognised.
‘You won’t remember me,’ said the man. ‘We only met the once, just before sentencing, and you was busy. But I remember you. And I know you’re in a spot of bother.’
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