White Knight/Black Swan

by David Gemmell

  Bimbo was about to speak, but Dodds raised a hand. ‘Just the kettle for now, all right?’

  Bimbo moved into the kitchen and washed two mugs. The kettle took an age to boil, but at last he returned with the drinks. Dodds was sitting by the fire.

  ‘Okay, Mr Dodds,’ said Bimbo, handing him a mug. ‘Whass on yer mind?’

  Dodds sniffed and took a deep breath. ‘No easy way to say this, son. But Adrian Owen died this morning. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Died? Whaddya mean died? He was in ’ospital, for God’s sake. He was gettin’ better!’

  ‘He had a relapse, Bimbo. It was very quick. He didn’t know anything about it. The officer on call got the doctor in, but there was nothing they could do.’

  Bimbo turned away and wandered to the window.

  ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Bimbo. ‘Me an all. I just buried one friend this mornin’. What’s happenin’ with Adrian? Do you know?’

  ‘His parents have been notified. All the arrangements are being made by them.’

  ‘Has anyone told Melanie? The girl he worked with?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ll do it then.’ He sat down by the window, leaning on the sill. ‘He was a good lad, you know. Gutsy. Jesus, he wasn’t even thirty.’ Bimbo swung towards Dodds. ‘I should never have done it. If I hadn’t got involved he’d still be alive.’

  Dodds moved into the room, acutely aware that Sue Cater was in the bedroom. He sat down beside Bimbo. ‘I haven’t got the answers, Bimbo. Never have had. But sometimes we do things for the best and they don’t work out. When I was younger I had a trial with QPR. I was a goalkeeper. I wasn’t bad. But in that trial I got beaten by five goals. Now the thing is that a goalkeeper can only cover two thirds of his goal at any time. He’s just got to pick which two thirds. I did everything right and got beat five times. They never signed me.’

  ‘Whass that got to do with Adrian?’

  ‘The right thing doesn’t always bring the right results. If I’d done the wrong thing I’d have saved those goals. Maybe. Then I’d have been a professional footballer. If you hadn’t helped Adrian he would still be alive. But it would have been wrong. For you, that is. You helped a friend, Bimbo. You didn’t do it for profit. You just did it. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘Aint like the movies, is it, Mr Dodds?’

  ‘Nothing is, son. This is life. I heard about the run. That was good. It rubs Reardon’s face in it.’

  ‘Big deal. Wish I could go back. Change a few things.’

  ‘We all wish that. Probably just as well we can’t. You going to bear up all right?’

  ‘Yeah. You know me, Mr Dodds, strong as an ox. I’ll be okay.’

  ‘I wish there was something I could say, son.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Bimbo. ‘Don’t worry about it. It was nice of ya to come. You didn’t have to do that. I’m not family or nothin’.’

  ‘Don’t do anything rash either. Reilly had Adrian turned over. And now they’re both dead. I don’t want any other deaths. Least of all yours.’

  ‘No. Me neither. Don’t worry, Mr Dodds. I’m not the killing kind.’

  ‘No, but the bastards you’re up against are.’

  Bimbo smiled. ‘I aint that easy to kill neither.’

  ‘With luck it may all be over very soon,’ said Dodds. ‘And you won’t have to be involved in it.’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ said Bimbo.

  ‘So what’s the big deal?’ shouted Jackie Green, his square face twisted in anger. ‘So the bastard died. So what? Even if they find out it’s me – which I doubt – it’ll still be manslaughter. I’ll be out in a year, eighteen months at the most. It’s not like the old days, is it? I mean, killing someone’s no big deal nowadays.’

  Frank Reardon took a slow, deep breath, holding down his anger. MacLeeland sat quietly on the sofa watching the two men. He knew Reardon was frightened of Jackie, but Jackie needed Reardon to give him a chance at returning to big-time boxing. Still, unhinged as he undoubtedly was, even this slender chain was unlikely to leash the mad dog for long. Reardon was walking a fine line.

  ‘You’re an idiot, Jackie,’ said Reardon, softly. ‘The courts may not care too much about killers these days, but the police do. It’s like shining a torch into the dark places. Now they’re looking. And do you know who they’re looking at? No? They’re looking at me. All my operations are going to come under the microscope – all because you haven’t the brains to wipe your arse unless someone tattoos a route map on your leg.’

  Green’s eyes blazed and he moved forward. Mac tensed, but Reardon stood his ground and spoke again. ‘A lot of people said you were mental, Jackie. A lot advised me to get shot of you.’ Green stopped, his hands trembling.

  ‘I did it for you,’ he said, at last.

  ‘Bollocks! You did it because he insulted you. You did it because you like doing it.’ Reardon swung away. ‘Go downstairs, Jackie. Play a little pool. I’ll see you later.’

  The big man turned and meekly left the room.

  Reardon sat alongside Mac and grinned. ‘Thought he was going to rip my throat out, didn’t you?’

  Mac nodded. Reardon chuckled. ‘Not while I’ve got what he wants. But you were right, Mac. I should never have brought him in. Getting rid of him is not going to be easy.’

  ‘You could give him over to the law,’ suggested Mac.

  ‘And have him tell everything he knows about me?’

  ‘You think he’d blag?’

  ‘Course he will. There’s no one in Jackie Green’s life that means anything to him – except Jackie Green.’ Reardon poured his fourth large Scotch of the evening and downed it in two gulps. Mac was growing increasingly nervous. Reardon was so hard to read these days, and his mood swings were sometimes terrifying. At the moment he seemed calm enough. ‘So, bring me up to date. What’s new on the leaflets?’

  ‘We’ve been to all the little printers. They all deny it, naturally. We’ve also spoken to some of the workers, you know, offered big money for tip-offs. The paper is standard A4. You can get it anywhere. The printing is something called Times Roman. All printers have it. It’s an old process called letter press. Hot metal. There’s only seven that still use it. We’re still checking them. My bet is a man called Hedges. Got a wife that likes to spend.’

  ‘Who saw him?’

  ‘Phelps. He says the guy was sweating.’

  ‘Have him seen to.’

  ‘Sure. From what Phelps said it won’t take much.’

  ‘What’s happening nearer to home?’ asked Reardon.

  ‘There’s rumblings from the pubs. Something’s happening. Shell, Wright and Harris have all refused to pay. Still, compared to the takings from the night clubs and the interests in Southall, it’s small potatoes at the moment.’

  ‘See that Shell is turned over. The rest will fold.’

  ‘Okay, if you think it’s a good idea with all the other business going on,’ said Mac, carefully.

  ‘I do. Now tell me again about Bimbo being in traction.’

  ‘He was beaten to a pulp. They damn near took him apart. I was told he was in hospital.’ Mac shrugged. ‘But everyone knows he was right turned over. He’s out of it.’

  ‘So badly turned over that he did a six mile run the following day?’

  ‘He’s not been out since, Mr Reardon. That was just bravado.’

  ‘Have him hit again.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ said Mac, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping the sweat from his face.

  ‘Not like you to argue, Mac. Wrong time of the month, is it?’

  The insult hardly registered on Mac. He’d heard so many during the past few years. But something inside him just gave way, and he looked up at Reardon. ‘I’ve tried to be
loyal, Frank. And I’ve done my best to give you honest advice. Bimbo was a bloody mistake. You said that yourself. Ever since we went after him we’ve had nothing but trouble. Now the pubs are blowing out, the Old Bill are all over the manor, and we’ve got a corpse to boot. It’s crazy to hit him again!’

  ‘Crazy? You calling me crazy, you fat worm?’ Reardon’s hand snaked out, cracking against Mac’s face and knocking him sideways across the sofa. ‘Don’t you ever call me crazy!’

  Mac pushed himself slowly to his feet. The left side of his face was red and his eye was beginning to swell. He began to gather the papers strewn on the desk, then stopped and straightened, leaving them where they were.

  ‘We’ve known each other for a long time, Frank,’ he said, sadly. ‘I remember when you first started. You did your own collecting. You were a hard man. But you had a great sense of humour. People liked you, Frank.’

  The fat man slowly made his way to the door.

  ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ roared Reardon.

  Mac turned. ‘I’m going home. I just quit.’

  ‘Nobody quits on me!’

  ‘You want Jackie to turn me over, or will you do it yourself? One punch should be enough, Frank. What’s one more stiff, eh?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Frank Reardon. ‘Who needs you? I’ve been carrying you for years. You hear me?’ he yelled, as the door swung closed.

  Reardon adjusted his cravat and stalked downstairs.

  Jackie Green was playing pool on the full-sized table by the poolside bar.

  ‘You hear any of that?’

  ‘I heard the shouting,’ said Green. ‘Sounds like he quit. Want I should talk to him?’

  ‘Jesus, no. He’s a friend of mine. You know I saved his life two years ago. Heart attack. I gave him mouth to mouth, and I carried him to my car – an old BMW. I got him to the hospital in four minutes.’

  ‘No gratitude some people,’ said Green, lining up a shot and cracking it away into the top pocket.

  ‘He’ll come back. I’ll give him a couple of days to cool down.’

  Jackie moved to the bar and poured a large Scotch, which he carried to Reardon. ‘You need something to relax you,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give the bitch a goin’ over. I’ve got a few ideas meself.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Reardon, downing the Scotch. ‘I promised her. I was pissed. It shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Good though, weren’t it?’

  ‘Squealed, didn’t she?’ agreed Reardon.

  ‘I reckon she liked it, you know. You can tell from the eyes. She’s just waitin’ for it again.’

  ‘No. No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Have another drink, Mr Reardon. We’ll talk about it.’

  Bimbo sat in Cyril Muntford’s elegantly furnished office, before the Victorian mahogany desk, gazing down at the pale sherry in the lead crystal glass. Beside him Stan Jarvis thought he was dreaming.

  ‘How much?’ said Stan.

  The elderly solicitor gave a wintry smile. ‘Two hundred and sixteen thousand pounds, that is if all the equities were to be realised immediately. But there is forty thousand currently liquid – cash, if you prefer. Then of course there is the lease to the shop. Would you wish to continue it, Mr Jardine?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The shop, sir. Do you wish to continue the lease?’

  ‘I don’t know nothin’ about antiques.’

  ‘We have a complete inventory of all stock and personal items. A swift evaluation is that they will bring about seventeen thousand, but collectors will no doubt bid a fortune to own the Knight’s Cross won by the infamous Heinrich Stolz.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Muntford, I can’t take all this in. It’s a bit sudden. I can’t exactly get a grip on it, if you know what I mean.’

  For the first time Muntford’s smile had real warmth. ‘Totally understandable, Mr Jardine. On top of your very real loss your emotions must be mixed. In a nutshell, my dear sir, after death duties are paid you should realise some one hundred and ninety thousand pounds.’

  ‘l don’t understand. Where’d he get all this dough?’

  ‘He played the market, Mr Jardine. And very successfully.’

  ‘And it’s all mine?’

  ‘No, sir. He left forty thousand to the RNLI – the lifeboat people – and twenty thousand to Cancer Research. But, as I said, you should realise around one hundred and ninety thousand. With careful investment you could earn some seventeen thousand per annum, before tax.’

  ‘How much is that a week?’

  ‘Around £350, say about £210 after tax.’

  ‘Every week?’ said Bimbo.

  ‘Yes. And that’s without touching the capital.’

  ‘Is it all right to have some now?’

  ‘There is no caveat against the will, Mr Jardine. The money is yours from the moment I transfer the funds and close Mr Stepney’s accounts.’

  ‘I dunno what to say. Honest to God, I don’t.’

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Jardine. In relative terms you are now a moderately wealthy man.’

  On the following Wednesday morning the Reverend Richard Kilbey, moving with uncustomary speed, raced up the stairs of the Refuge and burst into the committee room, where Pam was chairing a meeting.

  All eyes swung to him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. But it’s very urgent. I must speak to you, Pam. Right away. Sorry, ladies.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Pam told them. ‘I’ll be right back.’ She led Kilbey into the small office alongside the committee room. ‘What is it, Richard? I’ve some very depressed people in there.’

  Kilbey was almost beside himself. ‘It’s a miracle, Pam. My first. Well … not mine, but the Lord knows what I mean.’

  ‘He may, but I don’t, and I have some women in there who think the world’s about to come to an end.’

  ‘It hasn’t come to an end. It’s just beginning. Look. Just look.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and produced a bulging brown envelope, which he dropped to the table. ‘Look inside.’

  Pam picked it up and flipped it open. ‘Dear God,’ she whispered, as she slid the fifty £20 notes on to the desk top. She counted swiftly. ‘There’s a thousand pounds here!’

  ‘And that’s just the deposit for the workmen. The other money for repairs is promised. Nine thousand. Or as much as we need.’ Kilbey stepped forward and clumsily embraced the astonished Pam, planting a kiss on her brow. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, stepping back and looking sheepish.

  ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ said Pam, sitting down and staring at the money. ‘Where does it come from? And don’t talk about God.’

  Kilbey smiled. ‘What does it take to make a believer of you? I can’t tell you where the money comes from. It’s an anonymous gift. He came to see me late last night and just put the thousand pounds on my desk. It was sitting there, just like it is now. And he promised the rest as soon as we need it.’

  ‘Why?’ whispered Pam.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m just trying to think of something intelligent to say. Do I know him?’

  ‘It’s best not to go into that. I know you don’t believe in God, Pam, but this is an answer to prayer. We needed it, and here it is. I actually wept last night. I tried to call you, but the lines were out.’

  ‘We’ve been cut off,’ said Pam. ‘I don’t know what to say. You’re sure about the other nine thousand?’

  ‘I’m sure. Look, don’t stay in here with me. Go and tell the other girls … sorry, co-workers. Go on!’

  Pam reached out and took both his hands. ‘God, Richard, I wish all men were like you. You’ve kept us alive!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, colouring deeply. ‘But I’m
very happy for you.’

  She left then and returned to the committee room. Within seconds there were screams of joy, reverberating around the building. Richard Kilbey sat back and glanced out of the window. The sky was clear blue. Alone now, he said a short prayer of thanksgiving. Somehow it seemed so perfect that the legacy of Heinrich Stolz should come to the aid of man’s cruelty; like a cosmic balance coming into play.

  He thought of Bimbo, and his generosity.

  ‘It aint generous, Rev. It aint like it was my money. Go on, give ’em the good news. Make a change to ’ave a bundle of notes in their ’ands, eh?’

  ‘Come with me, Bimbo. Share the joy.’

  ‘Nah, keep me out of it. Tell ’em it’s out of church funds or summink.’

  ‘I can’t do that. It would be lying.’

  ‘Well, whatever. How much you reckon they’ll need?’

  ‘Anywhere from eight to ten thousand.’

  ‘I got the money, so you come to me, yeah? We’ll sort it out.’

  ‘God bless you, Bimbo.’

  ‘Don’t start all that, Rev. Anyway I have bin pretty well blessed all me life. Good health and that. Good friends. Aint much more to life is there? Now I got another favour to ask.’

  ‘Not another funeral, I hope?’

  ‘No, a weddin’. Friend of mine. I’m givin’ her away. Sorta like the bride’s father, you know? You aint got nothin’ against spades, have ya?’

  ‘Good Lord no!’

  Bimbo shrugged. ‘Thass good, cos they’re both spades. Esther and Simeon. He’s a doctor. They aint really of this parish, but I asked ’em if they wouldn’t mind gettin’ ’itched in my church. They said all right, so it’s up to you. I’ll be bookin’ a reception at the Stag.’

  ‘I think before you book the reception you ought to let me meet the bride and groom, so that we can arrange a convenient date.’

  ‘Yeah right. I’ll sort it out. I aint ever given anyone away before. I’m a bit chuffed, you know? Nice of her to ask, though.’

  ‘I’m sure she had good reason.’ The vicar stood and took Bimbo’s hand. ‘Remember what I said about stairs, won’t you?’