‘All you ghosts look alike to me.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘It didn’t cost nothin’.’
‘No. You’re keepin’ the lady waitin’.’
Silver grinned. ‘The bitch don’t mind. I hear you’re in deep shit, man. I hear Reardon is out for your ass.’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Nothing to me, man, ceptin’ it bring trouble to my turf. I don’t want no ghost gangs bringing down the Filth, you dig? What you do anyway? You steal from him, man?’
‘I never stole nothin’. I never done nothin’. And I don’t need to explain it to you, do I?’
‘Damn shame you aint black,’ said Silver. ‘I could use you. But,’ he shrugged, ‘that’s the breaks. You moving out?’
‘No.’
‘You a fool, man,’ said Silver, wandering away to the girl.
‘Yeah,’ Bimbo told the night.
He moved out onto the street and swiftly crossed the road, alert for any movement. There was none. The main front door was still open and he entered, dropping the latch. He stood for several minutes, eyes closed, listening for any sounds. There were none. He moved up the stairs, keeping to the wall, avoiding any loose boards that might betray his arrival. On the landing he waited once more, finally pressing the two-minute light. The landing was empty, and there were no bloody messages outside his flat.
He turned the key in his front door, hurling it open and stepping back into the landing. The door crashed into the wall beyond. Silence. Reaching round the doorway he flipped on the light and entered.
Nothing. The flat was empty, and just as he’d left it. He shut the door and searched every room. A £10 note he’d left on the table was still there. He sat by the window until the hammering in his chest eased.
He awoke at seven, ran six miles, and worked out until 9 a.m. Then he bathed, dressed and took a bus to Charing Cross Hospital. A different policeman was seated by the bed. Bimbo opened the door and stepped in.
The constable looked up and waved him away. Bimbo ignored him and pulled up a chair. Adrian’s face looked more human now, the swelling subsiding, but both eyes were blackened. His arms were both encased in plaster and his legs were in traction. A tube was pinned to his right arm, and another had been inserted into his nose.
‘’Ang in there, son,’ said Bimbo. The constable touched his shoulder. Bimbo looked up.
‘I’m sorry, mate, but you can’t stay here.’
‘’Ow is he?’
‘The next few days are crucial. That’s what they say. He’s bleeding internally and too weak to be operated on. You’re Jardine, yeah?’
‘Thass right.’
‘Sgt Dodds said you might be round. Now come on, move yourself. You’re not going to do any good sitting there. He can’t hear you.’
‘I come in every morning. Just for a coupla minutes.’
‘Okay. I’ll leave a message with the next man. He’ll let you in. But only for a couple of minutes. Right?’
‘Yeah. Ta.’
Bimbo left and walked back to Shepherd’s Bush, stopping to view the Seagull Snooker Club. It was completely gutted and timbers had been erected at the side, preparatory to demolition.
Stan certainly knew his trade.
Bimbo took a bus back to town and stopped off at the deli for a loaf of granary bread. As he stepped back outside a white Jaguar screeched to a halt in the kerb and two officers leapt out. ‘John Jardine?’ asked the first.
‘Yeah?’
‘Get in the car,’ he said, taking hold of Bimbo’s arm. Bimbo shrugged him away. The officer lunged at him, and, without thinking, Bimbo grabbed his jacket and spun him to the pavement. The second constable dragged his truncheon clear.
‘You better put that away, son, or I’ll make you eat it!’ Bimbo warned him. The man swallowed hard and advanced. A second car pulled up.
‘Bimbo!’ roared Don Dodds. ‘Stop soddin’ about and get in the car!’
The big man walked to Dodds’ vehicle.
‘What the bleedin’ ’ell’s ’appenin’?’
‘Get in, son, we’ll talk at the station.’ Bimbo slid into the back seat.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said, as the car moved away. ‘What about me bread? I dropped it.’
Dodds said nothing and the car picked up speed. It was a short ride to the new building, and a longer walk to the interview room on the lower levels. Don Dodds remained with him while the custody officer advised him of his rights and his pockets were emptied. Then he was left sitting at a metal topped desk, a young uniformed constable standing by the door. After about fifteen minutes two CID officers entered. One was young, about twenty-one, with sandy hair and a face that seemed never to have come in contact with a razor. The other was Eric Lynch, a 48-year-old Geordie, well known in the manor. Bimbo didn’t like him.
‘Where were you last night?’ asked Lynch, sitting opposite Bimbo and lighting a small cigar.
‘None a your business.’
‘That’s how we’re going to play it, is it?’
‘Looks that way. And there’s no point lookin’ for back ’anders. I don’t pay pricks like you. And I don’t need no four-hundred-quid remand neither.’ Lynch reddened. Then he smiled.
‘Remand, Bimbo? You couldn’t get bail on this if you was Prince Charles. Now tell me about last night.’
‘I got nothin’ to say.’
‘The custody officer told you why you’re here. It’s murder, son. The man you beat up last night .… Reilly. You caved his skull in. Not very wise. Understandable, though. After all he did have your queer mate turned over. You queer, Bimbo?
‘No.’
‘Just didn’t know your own strength, eh? That gonna be the defence?’
‘There aint no defence. I never touched him.’
Lynch turned to the younger man. ‘What you are witnessing here, Ian, is the ultimate triumph of brawn over brain.’ He swung back to Bimbo. ‘Watch my lips, dick-head. You – killed – Reilly – last – night. Now, before you deny it again, I’m going to run through some facts. At eleven-fifteen last night Mr Reilly was walking home to his house in Hammersmith. His wife, who was waiting for him, heard a noise and looked out of her window. She saw a man – she described him as being a bloody giant. Ring a bell, does it? – who was wearing a light-coloured track suit top. He was beating up her husband. She screamed and the man ran away. She remembers the track suit top being torn at the shoulder. Do you have a track suit top torn at the shoulder?’
‘Yeah. It’s back at me flat.’
‘No, son. It’s here. All your clothes are here. And I suppose you are going to be amazed to hear that your track suit top is all covered in blood.’
Bimbo said nothing.
‘Oh go on, son,’ said Lynch. ‘Detective Constable Sunley is new to CID, and he’s never heard anyone say, “this is a stitch-up, guv.” ’
‘I wanna see Sgt Dodds.’
‘That’s a new one. Think he can get you off, do you? Well, what do you know? Old Dodds. Old white-as-bloody-snow Dodds. I suppose you want a confidential chat?’
‘Well, I couldn’t have one with you, could I? Your nose is so far up Reardon’s arse when he coughs you sneeze.’
‘Under normal conditions, Bimbo, I’d make you eat those words. But there’s no need is there? What do you reckon? Ten years. At least with your record. Maybe life.’
‘I’d like to see Mr Dodds. And that’s the last word you’ll hear from me, you scumbag.’
‘You’re not using the brains God gave you, Bimbo,’ said Lynch. ‘Reilly had your mate put on the critical list. You went to sort him out. In the fight that followed he died. If you admit it you could get off with manslaughter. Maybe only do two, three years. The judge would take it kindly that you admitted the offence.’
Bimbo star
ed into Lynch’s eyes.
‘Look,’ said the younger man. ‘What the inspector says makes a lot of sense. You’ve been identified on the scene, the blood is on your clothes, and you have the motive.’
Bimbo looked into the younger man’s face. ‘Okay, son. I was with a lady named Sherry Wilks last night. I went round for dinner and stayed till after midnight.’ He gave the address.
Both men left the room, returning twenty minutes later. Lynch was wearing the kind of smile that could curdle milk.
‘Have you had time to work out a different alibi, Bimbo?’ he said.
‘What you talkin’ about?’
‘Mrs Wilks says she hasn’t seen you in days.’
For the rest of the day Bimbo refused to speak, maintaining a sullen silence and staring at the far wall. He was finally taken to a cell, where he sat on the narrow bed, his face impassive, his feelings masked.
Why would Sherry do that to him? Was it all a set up? Was that why she had invited him round, so that he could be put away for a crime he didn’t commit? He’d taken many knocks in his life, but this hurt worse than any. Betrayal. All he had done was try to help her, and she had repaid him with a savagery he could not comprehend.
He was still sitting in the same position when the cell door opened at midnight.
‘I hear on the grapevine you want to talk to me,’ said Don Dodds, stepping inside with two mugs of tea.
‘It don’t matter now,’ said Bimbo.
‘Of course it matters. I know you didn’t mean to kill him.’
‘I didn’t do it, Mr Dodds. If I had done it, I’d admit it.’
Dodds removed his cap and sat beside the big man. ‘Drink your tea.’
‘You know about Sherry?’
‘I heard.’
‘Why would she do that? Why would she say I wasn’t there?’
‘Did you see anyone else last night?’
‘No. Yeah. I seen that spade, Silver, when I come home. About one o’clock. He said he saw someone in my flat.’
‘What about the track suit top?’
‘I left it in a holdall by the front door. I was gonna take it to the launderette. I just never got round to it. I never done it, Mr Dodds. But I’m goin’ down for it. Two pound to a bent penny Reilly’s wife fingers me.’
‘Show me your hands,’ said Dodds.
‘Why?’
‘Don’t keep asking questions, son. It’s nearly midnight and I’m on again at eight-fifteen.’ Bimbo put down the tea and lifted his hands, palms upwards.
Dodds turned them over, examining the knuckles. They were flat and hard. ‘All right, Bimbo. You just sit tight. Say nothing. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Too late for that, Mr Dodds.’
‘You know what the Yanks say, son, it’s not over till the fat lady sings. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Dodds stood and tapped at the door. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said.
Outside the cell, Dodds waited as the officer locked the door, then walked with him back to the desk.
‘Thanks, Wilf.’
‘Don’t worry about it. What’s your interest?’
‘I don’t think he did it.’
‘Evidence is a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?’
‘Only on the surface. Bimbo’s no actor. And he wouldn’t be able to get away with lying to me.’
‘Come on, Don. We’ve got his track suit top and a witness who said she saw a giant. We know he’s had trouble with Reilly – and threatened him.’
‘Anyone who hits a man so hard he smashes his skull in ought to have bruised hands. Bimbo doesn’t. Added to that, where are the jeans he was supposed to have been wearing? Why no blood? Why only on the track suit top?’
‘Maybe he threw the jeans away.’
‘What, and kept a torn track suit top? What for, nostalgia?’
‘It’s a bit thin, Don.’
‘Then there’s the woman. Why give such a bum alibi?’
‘Panic?’
‘No. Something smells here. Who tipped us off?’
‘No idea. Lynch took the call. That’s all I know.’
‘That says a lot,’ muttered Dodds.
He left the station and glanced at his watch. It was almost ten-to-one and the night was chill to the point of frost. He climbed into his car and drove to Ironside Towers. Interviewing Silver was a problem. The man was a known villain and would give no information to the police.
The lift was out of order and Dodds slowly tramped up to the fourth floor, stopping outside the green-painted door with the brass numbers showing 114c. He pressed his finger to the bell and left it there. After about a minute a light came on in the hall beyond and the door was wrenched open by a tall negro wearing a white dressing gown. The anger faded from his eyes as he saw the dark uniform. ‘Good morning, Mr Silver. Hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘What the fuck you wan’?’ asked Silver, in an angry whisper, stepping from the hall on to the landing. ‘My kids is asleep.’
‘There was a raid on a pharmaceutical firm last night in Fulham. One of the witnesses said she saw a tall negro with a white leather jacket and tassles. A jacket just like yours, Mr Silver. So my Super suggested I ask you along to the station to answer a few questions. Get dressed please.’
‘I was here all evenin’.’
‘It’s not the evening, Mr Silver. It was about this time of the morning.’ Dodds consulted his notebook. ‘About 1.11 a.m. to be precise.’
Silver pulled the door to and stepped away from the house. ‘This is a crock of shit, sergeant. I was nowheres near Fulham.’
‘I’m sure you can produce witnesses, sir. Now come along, get dressed.’
Silver’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘Jesus, man, I was with a woman. My wife she’s crazy. She’d cut my balls with a razor.’
‘Dear, dear, wouldn’t that be a shame? Still, better than going inside, eh? There’s no one else to give you an alibi?’
‘Nobody who would. Hey! Wait a minute! I seen Bimbo – you know, the big guy from over the way. I seen him about that time.’
‘Bimbo Jardine?’
‘That’s him! Yeah. We spoke down in the courtyard.’
‘What about, sir?’
‘Who gives a shit? We spoke. You ask him.’
‘He’s another villain, sir. He might just back you up – and be lying. Tell you what, you tell me what he was wearing when you spoke.’
‘White sweater, jeans. He don’t seem to feel the goddamn cold.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
‘I told him some men were hanging round his flat. He’s in trouble, you know?’
‘So you were just doing a good deed for a white neighbour?’
‘Yeah. You wanna arrest me for that?’
‘Not at all, Mr Silver. You get back to bed, sir. You’ll catch your death in this weather.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it, sir,’ agreed Dodds. ‘We’ll see if Mr Jardine backs up your story. Goodnight, sir.’ Dodds left the stunned Silver and walked back to his car. So far, so good, he thought, but it proved little. Bimbo could well have come home from killing Reilly and changed his clothes. At least that would be the prosecution argument.
He drove home for five hours’ sleep and at 7.45 a.m. was outside Sherry Wilks’ front door. There was no bell and he rapped sharply with his knuckles. The door was opened by a young girl of around eight or nine. Dodds removed his cap and crouched down.
‘Good morning, miss,’ he said. ‘Is your mummy home?’
‘She’s in bed.’
‘Well, you go and tell her a nice policeman is here to have a few words with her.’
The girl ran off, leaving the door open. Dodds stepped inside and made his way to the living room. Two minutes later Sherry entered. She was wearing a t
owelling robe, and her face was flushed and angry.
‘How dare you just walk in here,’ she stormed. ‘Have you got a warrant?’
Dodds stood. ‘Put the kettle on, madam, and let’s not have a scene. I’m a very busy man and lying to the police is a serious business – even for a young mother.’
For a moment Sherry stood her ground. Then she backed away to the kitchen. Dodds followed.
‘Two sugars, madam, and keep it weak. I’ve always had a fondness for weak tea.’
‘You said I lied.’
‘Now my wife makes tea so strong you could melt the spoon. Thirty-three years we’ve been married. You’d have thought she would have learned by now.’
‘I didn’t lie. Honest to God.’
Dodds said nothing. Sherry poured the tea into a white mug and Dodds sipped it appreciatively.
‘Shall we go back into the lounge?’ he said. Once there he sat down and stretched his legs. ‘l did a little checking on you yesterday, madam. Sad case, isn’t it? You married that sleaze Wilks. He left you destitute. You got behind with your rent, and then met a nice man. That must have lifted you, eh? A good, soft article like Bimbo. Suddenly all your problems disappear. Rent paid, food in the house. Amazing what some men will do for a poxy little gold digger. For a slag! And make no mistake, that’s what, you are – a slag! I’ve seen your sort for twenty years. And you still make me sick. Nice cup of tea, though.’
‘You’ve no right to talk to me like that. You don’t know me,’ said Sherry. ‘You’ve no right.’
‘Oh, right doesn’t enter into it, madam. We’re talking facts. Night before last you entertained a man here.’
‘It wasn’t Bimbo.’
‘No? It was a man in white sweater and jeans. So your neighbour tells me. Built like a brick outhouse. Huge.’
‘My friend is big. But it wasn’t Bimbo.’
‘Now isn’t that strange? Here was I thinking Bimbo Jardine was a friend of yours, and now you tell me there are two giants in your life. Got a thing about big men have you?’
‘Get out! Get out of my house!’
Dodds didn’t move. Sipping his tea he looked around the room. ‘I retire soon, madam, and perhaps you can do me a favour. Perhaps you can tell me what makes people like you. Was it being married to Wilks? Or was it that sleaze-bags tend to attract each other? And one other thing. How is it that your little girl can’t tell your boyfriends apart? She told me, when she answered the door, that it was Bimbo who was here.’
White Knight/Black Swan Page 18