White Knight/Black Swan

by David Gemmell

  ‘Only one more flight to go, Rev.’

  Kilbey still wasn’t sure what that meant. Now Pam Edgerley walked back into the room, disturbing his thoughts.

  ‘I take it they were pleased,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. We want to write a letter to the benefactor. Would you take it for us?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s no danger of him changing his mind?’

  ‘None whatever,’ he reassured her.

  As Don Dodds entered the room Chief Inspector Frank Beard stood up and walked round the long desk to shake his hand. ‘That was a nice job of work, Don. And a great result. You know it was Jackie Green?’

  ‘I guessed it would be, sir.’

  It was a little before 7 p.m. and Beard offered the burly sergeant a drink.

  ‘No thank you, sir.’

  ‘You mind if I do?’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  ‘Sit down, Don,’ he told the officer, returning to his own seat with a measure of Scotch in an Esso tumbler. ‘You have heard what they’re going to call our SOCOs?’

  ‘Scene Investigators aren’t they? Is it true they’re taking on civilians for the work?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Beard. ‘Course they’ll be trained, intensive courses and all that.’

  ‘I think I preferred Scenes of Crimes Officers,’ said Dodds. ‘At least you knew they were coppers.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly. Look, Don, I’ll come straight to the point. Without your work I doubt we’d have nailed Green. We’d certainly have booked Jardine. But it’s not just that. You’re a bloody fine copper, and I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘I don’t want to get lost, sir. But I’ve no choice. I’ve done my thirty.’

  ‘Then how about staying on as an SOCO – dammit, I mean a Scene Investigator?’

  ‘Bit long in the tooth for that, sir.’

  ‘I can pull a few strings. And I need men like you. I’ll be buggered if I’m going to get left with just the Lynches of this world.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Edna, sir. She’s got her heart set on the retirement cruise.’

  ‘You can still take it. Look, I don’t want an answer now, but what’s your first reaction?’

  ‘I’d love to, sir.’

  ‘Good man! Now, what’s the latest on Green?’

  ‘He flew in just before the lab positively identified him from the print. Now he’s gone to ground. He knows we’re on to him. Reardon’s got too many friends around here for him not to know.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest keeping an eye on Bimbo. The two of them are going to meet, sure as eggs are eggs.’

  ‘Okay. Keep me in touch.’

  Bateman stood in the composing room watching the waxed bromides cut into shape and pasted to the pages. He loved this day of the week, when all the work came together and the newspaper was born. It wasn’t quite so dramatic as the old days when the words were translated into hot bars of lead, zinc and antimony, and placed in steel frames. When rough pages were ‘pulled’ by being smeared with ink, covered with a sheet of paper and a felt blanket, then hammered. But it was still thrilling.

  And today was the best day in five years. The whole of the front page was filled with a huge headline – ‘TERROR BOSS’ – under which was a picture of Frank Reardon. To the left of this was a reverse strip of white on black with the words, ‘Herald Team Exposes Vicious Protection Racket’. The story began on page one and moved to the centre pages, where interviews and pictures of Jack Shell, Jim Wright and Charlie Harris adorned the layouts.

  Don watched the pages coming together, hoping the copy would fit the space. He didn’t want to cut a single word. He had estimated the story at seventy-three column centimetres. With a five per cent margin for error he could be up to four paragraphs out.

  He was twelve paragraphs over.

  ‘You don’t get no better, Bateman,’ said Tom, the senior charge hand, who was working on the centre. ‘You want me to trim these pix to get all the copy in?’

  ‘Thanks, Tom. I’ll get it right next week.’

  ‘Yeah. Tell that to Brian. He’s working on page eleven, which is about the biggest cock up since Mons. We’re having the copy reset.’

  ‘I had other things on my mind. It’s looking good, eh?’

  Tom leaned back, and toyed with the idea of a putdown line. ‘It’s looking good, mate,’ he admitted. ‘Just like the old days when we printed real newspapers. A word to the wise though. That new advertising guy, Lander was down. He didn’t look best pleased.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with advertising,’ snapped Bateman.

  A half-hour later, as Bateman, Sue and a young reporter called Andrew Evans were reading the proofs, the phone rang and Bateman was summoned to the third floor. He said nothing to the others, but gathered the page roughs of the Reardon story and climbed the stairs.

  The Herald had recently been taken over by a new syndicate, and Bateman instinctively knew they were cowboys with no interest in the integrity of the profession; just another lot of greasy businessmen out to milk the dying cow.

  He tapped at the Marketing Director’s door. ‘Come in.’

  He entered.

  ‘Sit down, Bateman. You do prefer to be called Bateman, I understand?’ said Ray Lander.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Lander. Is there a problem?’

  Lander was short, stocky and bearded. He looked more like a bouncer than an advertising man. ‘You didn’t much like the take over, did you?’

  ‘Nothing I could do about it.’

  ‘Care to tell me why you were against it?’

  ‘Why not? I’m a newspaperman. I love journalism. At its best it’s the soul of a community, fighting the battles that keep that community just and caring. But somewhere along the way we got bogged down, Mr Lander.’

  ‘How?’ asked Lander, hooking his arms behind his head.

  ‘Well, there used to be a horse called journalism, and somebody suggested wouldn’t it be great to pin a rosette behind his ear extolling the virtues of some poxy little enterprise. Then there were two rosettes, and then a little cart. Then a bigger cart. A piled up, ten ton cart. And the horse never got fed, but the cart kept getting bigger. You catching my drift, Mr Lander?’

  ‘You’d have to be a moron not to, Bateman. But then you’re a dreamer. Newspapers aren’t cheap to print any more. We have to recover the cost. We sell the Herald at 25p an issue. It costs us 47p an issue to produce it. Advertising pays the bills. But then you dreamers don’t much care about paying the bills, do you?’

  Bateman grinned and lit a cigarette. ‘Nice touch, Mr Lander. But I didn’t come down with the last shower of rhubarb. During the last twenty years the sales of local newspapers have slumped. That’s because people are sick to death of poor products. If it costs 47p to produce, then we should be charging 50p.’

  ‘No one would pay it,’ said Lander.

  ‘That’s right, because people like you have made them crap products. But that’s where we differ, you see. People would pay for a good paper. Jesus Christ, they pay nearly £2 for a jar of coffee. Anyway, nice talking to you, but I’ve got a paper to get out.’

  ‘Tell me about Reardon,’ said Lander.

  Bateman’s smile was icy. ‘Ah. That’s the preamble over, then?’

  ‘That’s the preamble over,’ agreed Lander. ‘I had a call from Reardon’s solicitor. He says we’re planning to publish a libel against his client and if we do he’ll take us to the cleaners.’

  ‘There’s no libel. We have three affidavits from local publicans. Once we publish the others will come forward.’

  ‘You may not be aware, Bateman, but the Herald is currently losing money. That’s why we picked it up cheap. Now Reardon is currently negotiating advertising contracts that could be worth upwards of eigh
ty-seven thousand a year.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit,’ hissed Bateman. Lander’s face reddened.

  ‘What do we get out of printing this story?’

  ‘We get respect, Mr Lander. We get seen as a newspaper that lives up to its name.’

  ‘TV coverage?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘How probably?’

  ‘The affidavits will be presented to the police as soon as we’re on the presses. They’ll have to arrest Reardon. BBC local will pick it up. Then there’s the trial. More coverage for us.’

  ‘Show me the proofs,’ said Lander. Bateman passed them over. Swiftly Lander ran his eye over the front page. Taking a pen from his pocket he circled a word.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Bateman.

  ‘Spelling error. There’s an ‘e’ in Brooke Street. You should have known that.’

  Finally Lander finished reading and passed the proofs back. ‘Good story,’ he said. ‘The pictures look a little cramped, but it balances quite well.’

  ‘The copy overran. I had to have the pictures cut down.’

  ‘I guessed that. Okay, that’s all, Bateman.’

  ‘Then we run it?’

  ‘You say it’s all accurate. Go with it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ snapped Lander. ‘You think you’re the only bloody newspaperman in the world?’

  Bateman shrugged. ‘Sometimes it feels like it.’

  Downstairs once more Sue Cater leapt to meet him. ‘Do we run it?’ she asked.

  ‘We run it,’ he said.

  Stan called for Bimbo at 8 p.m. on Wednesday evening. Bimbo’s face was set and tension showed in his eyes.

  ‘You sure about this, son?’ asked Stan.

  ‘I’m sure. No choices left, Stan.’

  ‘What sorta condition you in?’

  ‘I bin better. But I run this morning, and it was okay. I did an hour on the weights, an’ all. I’m okay.’

  ‘Let’s be at it then, before I lose me nerve.’

  The two men climbed into the VW Golf and Stan headed out on to the Richmond road. Bimbo said nothing during the journey and Stan found his own throat terminally dry. ‘Wanna stop for a swift half, Bim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aint got a mint, have ya?’

  ‘You don’t have to come in, Stan. I’ve told ya before it aint your fight.’

  ‘Can’t a man even have a dry mouth now?’ Stan’s heart was beating at a terrifying rate as they drew up outside Reardon’s large house. Bimbo stepped from the car. Stan followed.

  ‘Wait here,’ ordered Bimbo.

  ‘Not piggin’ likely.’

  The two men walked swiftly up the gravel path, stopping before the ornate door. ‘You gonna kick it in?’ whispered Stan. Bimbo pressed the bell. The door was opened by Phelps. Before the man could react Bimbo reached out, grabbed him by the front of his sweater and dragged him on to the porch.

  ‘Two quick questions, son. Is Reardon here?’ Phelps nodded. ‘What about Jackie Green?’

  ‘He’s in hidin’. Police want him for toppin’ Reilly.’ Bimbo nodded, smiled, then cracked a wicked uppercut to Phelp’s chin. His head snapped back and his knees gave way. Bimbo lowered him to the ground and entered the house, Stan behind him. Reardon was sitting in the lounge. He was dressed in light beige slacks and white shirt with fawn cravat. He was watching television. He looked up, saw Bimbo, and scrambled to his feet.

  Bimbo advanced into the room.

  ‘You bastard!’ screamed Reardon. He ran forward, throwing a punch. Bimbo blocked it with ease and crashed a right handed blow to Reardon’s chin. Stan heard his jaw snap and winced. Reardon stumbled to his knees. Bimbo’s foot lashed up, cracking into the smashed jaw. Reardon toppled back, unconscious.

  ‘Now what, Bim?’

  ‘I don’t bleedin’ know.I was ’oping Green would be here.’

  Jean Reardon walked into the room – and froze. She was a tall woman, elegantly dressed. The left side of her face was horribly bruised, and her right arm was in a sling.

  ‘Don’t worry, love, we aint gonna hurt ya. We’re just leaving,’ said Bimbo.

  ‘You must be Mr Jardine,’ she said, coolly. ‘I have heard so much about you. I don’t think it would be wise to leave the job half done. Do you?’

  ‘Looks more than half done to me.’

  ‘But when he wakes up he will come after you.’

  ‘I aint gonna kill him. It’s not my game.’

  ‘Who’s talking of killing?’ snapped Jean Reardon. ‘I’m talking of finishing him. Get his clothes off.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bimbo.

  ‘Because we’re all going out,’ said Jean, moving to the far wall and opening a drawer beneath an oval mirror. She pulled a length of leather and a large steel-studded collar clear and walked back to the body, dropping the dog leash on it.

  ‘I think she’s a nutter, Bim,’ said Stan.

  ‘Trust me, Mr Jardine. Please. I know what I’m doing. And I can lead you to Jackie Green.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘First do as I say. Strip him.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ said Bimbo, kneeling down by the unconscious gang boss.

  It was 9.45 p.m. when the call came to Dodds as he was sitting at home watching re-runs of Hill Street Blues.

  ‘Jackie Green is at the Royal Swan, Mr Dodds. He’s on the top floor. And he’s got a shooter. He took it from Reilly. It’s a magnum.’

  ‘Thanks, Georgy. I owe you.’

  ‘You look after yourself, Mr Dodds. Wouldn’t do to get shot so close to retirement, would it?’

  Dodds replaced the receiver and looked at Edna. ‘Have to go out, love. I’ll give you a call later.’

  ‘I’ll be glad when you’re away from all this,’ she said.

  ‘Me too.’

  He was at the station by 10.03 p.m.

  It was 10.29 p.m. when Jean Reardon guided her husband’s grey Mercedes into the car park of the Royal Swan. She pulled on the handbrake and waited until Stan’s VW pulled alongside.

  Jean swung in the seat to look into the rear of the car, where Bimbo sat with the naked Reardon. She smiled at her husband, enjoying the fear in his eyes.

  ‘Time to go, Frank,’ she said.

  Bimbo opened the rear door. ‘For God’s sake,’ mumbled Reardon through his swollen jaw. ‘Don’t do this to me!’ Bimbo tugged on the leash and the dog collar cut into Reardon’s neck. Feebly, the gang boss grabbed at the car seat, struggling to stay inside. Bimbo jerked the lead hard. Reardon tumbled to the cold tarmac. He came up screaming and rushed Bimbo, who thudded a blow to the man’s belly. Reardon stumbled to his knees, all air gone from his lungs. He began to wheeze. Bimbo grabbed him by the arm, hauling him upright.

  Bimbo pulled him to the lounge door and opened it, stepping inside. The bar was packed, and all noise ceased when the regulars saw the naked man. Reardon closed his eyes and fell to his knees. Bimbo hauled him on all fours to the centre of the room.

  ‘Hey, Danny!’ he called to the barman, his voice booming in the new silence. ‘Get me a pineapple juice and bowl of water for the dog.’

  No one moved. All eyes were fixed on the whimpering Reardon. In the doorway Jean Reardon began to laugh, the sound chilling and almost hysterical.

  ‘Come on, son,’ Bimbo told the barman. ‘Can’t you see he’s thirsty?’

  The barman stepped back out of sight and pressed the intercom button to the flat above. Bimbo looked around at the stunned faces. ‘Not very lively in here tonight. I think we’ll go down the Stag. Come on, boy!’

  He tugged the leash. Reardon covered his face with his hands and refused to move. From the far corner MacLeeland moved into sight, holding a raincoat.

  ‘You’ve made your point, Bimbo,’ he
said. ‘Let it go.’ He draped the coat over Reardon’s shoulders.

  ‘Let it go?’ hissed Bimbo. ‘Let it bleeding go? Adrian’s dead, Mac! This fucking piece of shit had him beaten to death. Enough? It wouldn’t be enough if I took him round every poxy pub in London.’

  ‘You want to beat me up too, Bimbo?’ asked Mac. ‘Cos you’ll have to. I’m not letting him be left like this.’

  ‘Oh shit, Mac!’ said Bimbo, releasing the leash and letting it fall to the floor.

  ‘Let it go, son. This aint your style, is it?’

  Bimbo gazed down at the broken man on the floor. ‘Get him out of here, then. Go on, before I change me mind.’

  Mac lifted Reardon to his feet and led him from the bar. A door at the back of the lounge opened and Jackie Green stepped into view. He moved through the silent crowd and saw Reardon being helped from the pub.

  Stopping before Bimbo, he grinned. ‘I was hoping you’d come,’ he said. ‘He should have sent me after you at the start. It would have saved all this bother.’ He slowly removed his navy blue blazer and handed it to a man behind him. From the doorway Stan Jarvis saw the butt of the magnum protruding from the inside pocket. The man holding the jacket nodded to Green. The boxer was now side-on to Bimbo. With astonishing speed, he whipped a right hand blow to Bimbo’s chin. Bimbo flew backwards, hit a table and rolled to the floor. Green ran for him. Bimbo came off his knees in a lunging dive – straight into Green’s upraised knee. He spun to the floor. Green stepped back.

  ‘Get up, arsehole, the pain has only just started.’ Bimbo wiped the blood from his broken nose and slowly climbed to his feet. He moved forward. Green stepped in, feinted a left, then drove a right-hand blow that opened the stitches over Bimbo’s left eye.

  The plaster was still in place, but blood began to seep through. Still Bimbo came forward, this time walking into a combination of lefts and rights that snapped his head back. An upper cut flew towards his chin. He rolled left, the fist flashing past his face, and thundered a chopping right that exploded against Green’s ear, hurling him into the bar; Green shook his head and grinned.

  ‘Not bad, Bimbo,’ he said. ‘You know how to hit. That’s good.’