Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill

by Near To The Knuckle

  Sheraton Hove was Niki’s godfather. He worked for a veritable cornucopia of shady government departments. MI5, MI6. Sometimes the CIA. Sometimes, well … who knew?

  Although Niki always enjoyed the ‘old rogue’s’ company, though he rarely contacted her unless he wanted some help from her.

  “This pub is where DNA was discovered, you know,” said Hove.

  “Yes, Sheraton, I do. While I was waiting for you, I read the information on the pub wall that a group of scientists had a breakthrough after popping in here for an afternoon pint,” said Niki. “I had enough time to read it two or three times, actually.”

  The pub that Niki had originally chosen for the meeting, The Granta, had been half empty despite being a very decent boozer. It overlooked the River Cam and rented out punts. She assumed that most people had probably been put off by the heavy storm that seemed to be brewing. While she was waiting, Hove had phoned and said he wanted ‘the anonymity of the crowd’ and suggested meeting at The Eagle. And he had turned up late, of course. But then that was Sheraton Hove all over. He was either early or late, but never on time. One of his many annoying eccentricities.

  “So, what can I do for you, Sheraton,” asked Niki. She leaned close to him.

  “Well, it’s more a matter of what I can do for you, Goddaughter,” he said.

  Niki frowned.

  “Well, that’s very nice and generous of you,” she said. “But as I know you, Godfather, there is sure to be a bit of quid pro quo involved. So, fire away.”

  He took a sip of lager and smiled.

  “What do you know about ‘The Ministry Of Ungentlemanly Warfare’?” he said.

  “Isn’t that a film? With Sean Connery? Minna Harker, Dorian Grey, Mr Hyde. Based on a British comic book, I think.”

  “Don’t be droll, dear. You know very well it isn’t. And we don’t say comic book these days. We say graphic novel or sequential art.”

  “Do we? How horribly … twee. Okay,” said Niki. “Let me have a bit of a ponder. Get the old brain cells working.”

  She closed her eyes. Tapped her forehead three times.

  “‘The Ministry Of Ungentlemanly Warfare’,” then, opening her eyes, said, ‘Were officially known as the ‘Special Operations Executive’. They were set up by Sir Winston Churchill during world war two in order to carry out various covert missions against the axis powers in Europe. Those missions were, and still are as far as I know, classified. Sir Christopher Lee, the actor who played Dracula and the bad wizard in The Lord Of The Rings was a member. Oh, and Ian Fleming reputedly based a lot of the stuff in the Bond books on them. Is that enough?”

  She took a gulp of her beer.

  “Very good, dear. Very good,” said Hove. “Though I personally believe Christopher Lee’s best work was as Lord Summerisle in The Wicker Man, but I digress.”

  “No change, there, Sheraton. So, what has this got to do with me? Or the Metropolitan Police, for that matter?”

  “Hold on,” said Hove and he finished his drink.

  “Same again?” he said.

  Niki shrugged. “Oh. Why not?” she said.

  Hove went to the bar while Niki cadged a cigarette from an Italian teenager. Hove came back and put the drinks on the table. He moved his chair closer to Niki.

  “Well,” he said. “What you and most people don’t know is that ‘The Ministry Of Ungentlemanly Warfare’ still exists.”

  “It’s still operating?”

  “Very much so. Especially in the middle east and the former Soviet bloc.”

  “Wow,” said Niki. She drained her drink. Lit up her cigarette, ignoring Hove’s disapproving look. “Go on.”

  “Well, a few years ago, Jacqui King, one of our best operatives was working undercover in Poland, checking out ‘arms running’, ‘people smuggling’ and the like when she went AWOL.”

  “Caught? Killed?”

  “That’s what we thought, but recently, we found out that she was still very much alive. She’d integrated herself in a criminal group that financed themselves by selling body parts to the super rich; oil sheiks, oligarchs and the like.”

  “Oh, that’s very dramatic and mysterious.”

  “Not that uncommon I think you’ll find. It seems as if the group eventually took it upon themselves to reduce Europe’s homelessness problem and make a little money on the side.”

  “Nasty. Well, you live and learn,” said Niki. “So you were saying about your woman underground.”

  “Yes, well, we were getting regular reports from her for a while, and then her dot disappeared from the ‘radar’ as it were. Until recently.”

  Niki looked at her watch and exaggerated a yawn. “Well, that’s a very lurid yarn, Sheraton, but I still don’t know what it has to do with me. I’m only a humble police inspector now. My cloak and dagger days are long behind me. I hope,” she said.

  Sheraton Hove smiled and patted her hand.

  “Well, we know from monitoring your email correspondence that your friend Detective Sergeant Burke is interested in investigating a possible serial killer known as ‘The Black Crow’.”

  Niki slouched in her chair, suddenly very tired.

  “Do you spooks monitor everything we do?” she said.

  “Pretty much. Anyway, we believe ‘The Black Crow’ may be our woman.”

  “And so …”

  “And so. We ... my department ... the government, ‘Her Majesty’ – would like your detective to locate ‘The Black Crow’ and, assuming Sergeant Burke finds anything out, of course, report back to us.”

  “Oh. So, you want to second Ronnie Burke?”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. This will be strictly off the record, of course. Detective Burke will be put on sick leave, recuperating from his recent illness, reporting to you and only you. I take it he can be trusted?”

  “Yes, Ronnie’s as ‘sound as pound’. So, ‘The Black Crow’ is operating here in London now?”

  “Indeed, but it appears she has been spotted in various parts of Europe. And the head office, as it were, of her criminal cohorts are based in Warsaw. Darek Peplinski, an important Polish banker was recently eliminated in the heart of Soho.”

  “Really, I hadn’t heard anything about that.”

  “Well, no. You wouldn’t have. We managed to hush that one up. That’s why we need people who can operate in the shadows.”

  “Yes, Ronnie can be discreet.”

  “Good. As a bonus to Detective Sergeant Burke we’ll even clear his debt with Marjorie Razorblades.”

  “Wow. You do know everything and you’re very generous with the taxpayers’ money, too.”

  “And Jacqui King needs to be located.”

  “Sheraton, is there anything you don’t know?” said Niki.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” said Hove and winked.

  “Really?” said Niki.

  “Really,” he said and finished his drink.

  Niki leaned close to him and looked him in the eyes. “So, what are Saturday’s winning lottery numbers going to be?” she asked.

  “Now, do you really want to know?” said Hove. “After all money can’t buy you love.”

  “Mm. Well I’d love another drink and you’re paying,” said Niki.

  London, England

  Ronnie Burke’s battered Aston Martin mounted the cracked pavement and slammed into the side of the wooden fence, dislodging the slats and screeching to a halt.

  “Buggeration,” said Ronnie as the airbag expelled and the theme from The A–Team stopped playing. He gasped. “Well, that was … stimulating.”

  He turned toward the passenger seat, but Jola was already out of the car and racing down the deserted, rain–soaked street, quickly gaining on the black clad Goth they’d been chasing.

  Ronnie struggled out of the driving seat and by the time he was free, Jola and caught up with her quarry. She had him pinned down on the floor and was putting handcuffs on him.

  Ronnie strolled up the street, pai
n in his chest. The ratty looking youth was face down, screaming something about his rights and Jola was sat on his back, munching on a Snickers bar.

  “Is this what they call the softly, softly approach in Poland?” he said.

  “Police work isn’t for the soft,” she said.

  “Different strokes for different folks,” said Ronnie.

  “It’s different working here, for sure,” she said. “It takes time adjusting.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Ronnie. “I was seconded up north a while back. A place called Seatown. It was a shitty one–whore–town in the middle of nowhere. Depressing as fuck. I felt like ‘Virgil Tibbs’, I really did.”

  “Who is ‘Virgil Tibbs’?”

  “You must know Sidney Poitier, right? In The Heat Of The Night?”

  “Wasn’t she in that Quentin Tarantino film, Death Proof?”

  Ronnie laughed. “I think she was. Okay. Never mind. Listen, I’ve got something I want to ask you about, by the way,” said Ronnie. “Something with a Polish connection. Fancy a drink after work?”

  He stamped his feet, feeling the cold.

  “Of course,” said Jola. “And maybe a shag?”

  “Well, if you twist my arm,” said Ronnie.

  “Very … kinky,” said Jola. “But I’ll give it a try.”

  New York, USA

  Katherine Howard’s office had been stripped bare. The furniture, paintings and albums had all gone, and it looked as if she was moving out. Solitaire thought it looked a little sad, though at least the awful music had stopped.

  “Are you quitting the business for good?” asked Solitaire. She sat on a wooden crate drinking a Starbucks cappuccino.

  “Oh, yes. I can’t wait to get out of New York,” said Katherine.

  She closed up a box and fastened it with Scotch tape. “Luckily Howard’s insurance payment has allowed me to make fresh start elsewhere.”

  “So, where are you going? Anywhere interesting?”

  “To Italy. Tuscany to be precise. I’m going to write a novel, would you believe?”

  “A murder mystery ? Like one of Howard’s?”

  “No thanks! I’ve had enough of that!” said Katherine. “It’s more of a post–modern memoire.”

  Solitaire stifled a yawn. “So, how can I help you?” she said.

  “A bit of tracking. I want you to find my son, Mikey. He has been touring Europe with the aim of arriving in London and meeting his birth father, and I’ve lost contact with him. He doesn’t even know that Howard is dead, as far as I know. This is he.”

  She handed Solitaire the photograph of a tall blue–eyed young man with floppy blond hair. He was good looking in a pampered rich boy way.

  “So Howard wasn’t Mikey’s natural father?”

  “No he certainly couldn’t get it up to do that. He was more interested in imbibing than in his husbandly duties,” said Katherine.

  She opened up a window and switched off the air conditioning. The traffic rumbled outside.

  “And where is Mikey supposed to be?” said Solitaire.

  “The last I heard from my son was a postcard from Spain, Madrid. This is the hostel he was staying at.”

  She handed a leaflet to Solitaire.

  “Hostal Oliver,” said Solitaire. “Located in Puerta del Sol. Looks like a great location. Slap bang in the centre of the city.”

  “For sure. Mikey is a party boy. He takes after Howard that way.”

  “Did he go with anyone or on his own?”

  Oh, he went with Scott, one of his idiot frat–boy–friends, but he came back not long after they arrived in France. He couldn’t take the language, food, drinking and smoking.”

  “The true American in Paris experience, then.”

  “Unfortunately so.”

  “Do you have a cell phone number for your son?”

  “He left it here. His iPad too. I’ve sent him emails but to no avail.”

  “Facebook? Instagram?”

  “Ha! Mikey is a little young fogey, in that respect, I’m afraid. He shuns social media.”

  “Okay, I’ll start with the hostel and take it from there,” said Solitaire.

  She got up and looked out of the window.

  “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day,” she said.

  “Indeed,” said Katherine.

  She moved over to Solitaire and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “And. Thanks for all your help with Howard,” said Katherine.

  She kissed Solitaire on the lips and held her gaze just a little too long.

  London, England

  Ronnie threw the dart and hit a double top. He turned to Jola, pointed a finger and grinned.

  “Eye of the tiger,” he said.

  “I thought it was the eye of a bull,” said Jola.

  She was dressed in black jeans and black turtle neck sweater. She’d recently had her hair cropped short. She was leaning against the bar nursing a large gin and tonic.

  Ronnie was in worn jeans and a badly ironed checked shirt.

  “Well, you see, what I meant was …” he said.

  Jola smirked.

  “It was supposed to be joke,” she said. “I obviously need more practice getting my tongue around … the English.”

  Ronnie laughed.

  “Can’t argue with that,” he said. “Another tipple?”

  “Why not.”

  Ronnie ordered another Guinness and gin and tonic and took them over the table near the broken fruit machine. The Essex Arms was half empty but he wanted some privacy. Jola sat next to him.

  “So, what do you want to talk about?” she said.

  “Well, I had some juicy information from an informant. A sleaze–ball called ‘Baghead’ Berry. He’s well known in this area.”

  “That’s a strange name.”

  “It suits him, though. He’s your archetypal part–time junky/ full–time alcoholic/ small–time criminal/ big–time loser. Anyway, ‘Baghead’ said he has some info about a serial killer who’s selling body parts in the UK and elsewhere. They call her ‘The Black Crow’, apparently.”

  Jola’s eyes widened.

  “What sort of body parts? Kidneys?” she said. “I’ve heard that’s very popular.”

  “Yes kidneys, but not just, apparently. There’s a market for everything these days. It seems a couple of Saudi Sheiks in Knightsbridge like to keep a stockpile of … bits and pieces … in case of accidents.”

  She grimaced.

  “Is this ‘Baghead’ reliable? Honest?”

  “Well, no he’s neither but he’s too stupid to lie convincingly. Of course, how accurate the information is, I don’t know. Like I said, he’s an alcoholic. A junkie. He hallucinates. He once saw someone throw a Frisbee in Hyde Park and thought it was a UFO. He ran into the nearest police station and announced that the Martians were invading.”

  Jola chuckled.

  “So, what are you going to do?” she said.

  “Well, I had a natter with Disgrace and she said I could go undercover and have a sniff around. See if there’s anything to this ‘Black Crow’ story. She won’t let me have a proper holiday at the moment, but she says a working holiday could be doable. Or even a spot of sick leave?”

  “So what is the Polish connection that you mentioned?”

  “Well, it turns out that ‘The Black Crow’ may have croaked some big shot Polish banker and we may need an interpreter that we can trust.”

  “I can’t see a connection between a Polish banker and this Kenny ‘Cokehead’,” said Jola.

  “Me neither but that’s for us to find out.”

  “Well, it sounds like a plan, then.”

  Ronnie finished his drink.

  “So, when do you think we’ll be going?” said Jola.

  “In the next few weeks, I hope.”

  “Undercover, you silly. Back to your flat. I really need to work on my English oral skills.” She sucked on an ice cube.

  “Well, I reckon I’m ju
st the man you need!” said Ronnie.

  New York, USA

  Solitaire finished her drink and left The Collins Bar. The warm wind enveloped her as soon as she stepped out onto the rain soaked street. She fastened her coat tightly. A big Black Mariah skidded around a corner and screeched to a halt in front of her. It dimmed its lights.

  On the corner of the street, beneath a blinking street lamp, a tall man was smoking a cigarette. His silhouette appeared and disappeared like warm breath on a cold window pane. The man got into the car and it drove away.

  Solitaire walked to the end of the street and stopped outside a closed down church that was being converted into a wine bar. She listened for a moment and heard the sound of an engine running. She stepped into a dank alleyway.

  A click, and Solitaire saw her father lighting a cigarette with a zippo lighter. Two woolly hatted thugs stood beside him.

  “Hi dad,” she said. “That shit will kill you.”

  “Don’t you remember, I’m already dead,” rasped Antoine Solitaire.

  “You’re looking pretty well, all things considered.”

  “It’s mind over matter. If you don’t mind it doesn’t matter. So what reason do you have to bring me out of the woodwork?”

  “I’m heading off to Europe?”

  “Really? Not Germany, I hope,” said Antoine. “I’m not as well–loved there as I am in some other places.”

  “Probably not. Spain is the first port of call, or maybe London. I wondered if you had any contacts in Madrid.”

  “Yeah, sure. There’s an Australian guy I know. He’ll be a good help. What are going to be doing in Spain?”

  “I’m tracking down a missing rich kid.”

  “Did you keep up those expensive Spanish lessons I paid for?”