by Roberta Kray
‘I have to get back to London today. Important business.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Excuse me, I need to find a phone.’
Annie came back to the table and sat down. ‘Where’s Prince Charming?’
‘Phone call.’
‘God, he’s such a bore. What were you talking about?’
‘Nothing much.’
Annie gave her a look. ‘Nothing much about what?’
Judith hadn’t told her about Alfred Tombs and didn’t intend to. She knew how Annie would react. ‘His job, mainly. He likes to talk about himself. In fact, I think it’s his favourite subject. Where’s Martin gone?’
‘He’s getting some drinks from the bar. He’s all right, you know, quite a laugh.’
The two of them lapsed into silence, each preoccupied by their own thoughts. The beat of the music filled the room, along with the gentle tap and slide of soles on the dance floor. The smell of lilies drifted in the air. Judith gazed over at Charlotte. It was the beginning of a new life for her friend, a fresh start, a new journey. Soon Judith too would be going on a journey. This time on Monday she’d be in London. The idea both frightened and excited her. Her hand shook as she lifted her glass to her lips and sipped the last few drops of champagne.
What was going to happen next? She trembled, nervous as a new bride.
5
DS Saul Hannah’s eyebrows would lift whenever anyone talked about the war being over. That war, perhaps, the one in Europe, but another was still raging on the streets of London. Criminals had grabbed the opportunity of a decimated police force to wreak havoc on the capital with a relentless campaign of robbery, fraud, kidnapping and illegal gambling. The police had been fighting a losing battle until the formation of the Special Duties Squad in 1946.
Saul had been chosen for the squad because he was a dedicated cop, and he was dedicated because he had nothing else in his life. Having lost his wife and daughter in the Blitz, all he had left was his work. He clung onto this like a drowning man, working day and night, channelling all his energy into anything that stopped him from thinking too much about the things he couldn’t bear to think about.
The department had quickly become known as the Ghost Squad, due to the fact that it barely existed in an official capacity. This was because its methods were unconventional. It was the job of its members to gather information – by any means they cared to use – and to pass it on to the relevant department, usually the Flying Squad or CID, who would make any subsequent arrests.
Saul was good at what he did. Different cops had different ways of extracting information from their snouts, some using fear, others a more gentle approach. He favoured the latter, the carrot rather than the stick. It was too exhausting to play the hard man all the time, to be the bastard, to bully and threaten, and anyway, it wasn’t in his nature. His informants responded better to a quid pro quo approach – I’ll scratch your back and you scratch mine. This usually involved a letter to the court requesting leniency when a snout was caught red-handed, or letting them off with a caution if the information offered might hook a bigger fish.
People had their own reasons for informing. It could be as simple as wanting to avoid a prison sentence, the reward money (loss adjusters would pay a ten per cent reward for information leading to the return of stolen property), revenge, turf wars, or even, as in the case of the woman he was waiting for, an opportunity to get rid of an abusive husband.
Saul scratched the base of his neck where the sun was shining on it. He was sitting on a low wall in what remained of someone’s front room. Once there had been two rows of houses on this land, an entire street, but now there was only rubble and weeds. The place was deserted, desolate. He could feel the dust in the back of his throat as he breathed in.
When it came to snouts, patience was required, especially in the case of women like Maud Bishop. It wasn’t always easy for her to escape the family home. Sometimes, when things were bad, she didn’t turn up at all. Fear and loathing ruled her life. Michael Bishop was the worst kind of man, violent and unpredictable, an armed robber with an appetite for sadism. He wasn’t fussy who he knocked about: security guards, cops, prostitutes and, of course, his own wife. The only time Maud had any respite was when he was locked up.
Saul lit a cigarette and gazed out across the wasteland. He would stay for half an hour before he gave it up as a bad job. She might come and she might not. He wasn’t going to stress. Nothing was predictable in this line of work; you just had to roll with it, to grab the opportunities when they came along.
It was another twenty minutes before she put in an appearance. He heard her before he saw her – the quick footsteps, the crunch of glass beneath her shoes – and stood up. He watched her walk towards him, her shoulders hunched, her expression furtive. She was a skinny, gaunt-faced woman who looked about forty but was probably ten years younger.
‘Maud,’ he said, and nodded. He didn’t ask how she was, as the answer was obvious.
She was sporting an ugly black eye. The lid was swollen and the damaged flesh around it was the colour of ripe plums. He felt sorry for her in a vague, unfocused kind of way. He didn’t do strong emotions any more; he had cut himself off from other people’s suffering, barely able to cope with his own.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she said, looking left and right before glancing over her shoulder. Her head swivelled back and she stared at him again, her face full of fear. ‘He’ll bloody kill me if he finds out about this.’
Saul reckoned he’d probably end up killing her anyway. ‘He won’t find out, not from me, at least.’
She worried at her lower lip for a moment as though she might be about to change her mind, but her options were limited. It wasn’t the first occasion she’d grassed on her old man; last time, he’d got nine months for burglary. A thin sigh escaped from her mouth. ‘I don’t know much, not yet, but it’s something big, I’m sure of it. Hull’s been round the house. I heard the two of ’em talking in the kitchen.’
Saul nodded. Pat Hull ran a firm over in Hoxton, a gang of thieves who specialised in breaking and entering, and hijacking lorries. He’d taken over from his older brother Lennie, who’d been shot through the head in ’44. Lennie hadn’t, of course, been fighting for his country, but feathering his nest at home. He’d been dispatched by a person or persons unknown in the back streets of Kellston.
‘I reckon it’s to do with some tom,’ Maud said.
‘Jewellery?’
‘Watches and the like.’
‘You know when and where?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’ll find out, though. Switzerland – that’s where it’s coming from. I heard them say.’
Saul’s first thought was Heathrow. An expensive consignment of watches was more likely to come in by air than road. ‘Soon, you reckon?’
‘Not that soon. I mean, not tomorrow or nothin’. He gets all quiet when it’s coming up, won’t say more than he has to. Starts picking at his food and … I dunno. A fortnight, a few weeks, maybe?’
‘Shooters?’ he asked. ‘Are they going to be carrying?’
She grimaced. ‘What do you think?’ Her gaze flew around the wasteland again. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get back.’
Saul took a fiver out of his wallet. ‘Here,’ he said, pressing the note into her palm. ‘Let me know when you’ve got anything more.’
‘Ta.’ Maud slipped the money into the pocket of her shabby brown dress, then turned and quickly walked away.
Saul stayed where he was, giving her time to get clear. There was no one else in sight, but he never took unnecessary risks. Informing was a dangerous business for both the giver and receiver. He had no regard for his own personal safety but was always protective of his snouts. For them, being labelled as a grass would have major repercussions.
He lit another cigarette and thought over what Maud had told him. If this job was as big as she reckoned, it would be a major coup catching Hull in the act, and a chance to send hi
m and Bishop down for a good long stretch. Unfortunately, Saul himself wouldn’t be in on the arrests if and when they happened. Part of his job was to keep a low profile and to make sure nothing could connect him to his snout.
Information was the lifeblood of the force, especially in this time of ongoing austerity. With so many items in short supply – food, whisky, tobacco, nylons, furs – the villains were having a field day. The black market was still flourishing, with eager customers queuing up for anything the racketeers could lay their hands on. The fraudsters were being kept busy too, forging petrol and ration coupons, not to mention fake identity papers for any deserter who wanted a fresh start.
Saul curled his lip. This war, the battle against crime, would never be over. All they could do was to try and contain it. And if that meant playing dirty, so be it. The police had always paid for information that came their way, but the Ghost Squad went out actively to look for it. Saul’s list of informants was a long one. He never wrote down their names, but kept them in his head. It was all about trust. Some snouts were easier to manage than others. There were a few, the sly ones, who informed in order to divert attention from their own dodgy dealings, but Saul hadn’t been born yesterday; he was always one step ahead, always in control of the situation and never controlled by it.
He dropped the butt of his cigarette, ground it down with his heel and yawned. He’d been up half the night doing the rounds of the pubs and clubs in Soho looking for a small-time villain called Monaghan. There was a rumour the feller had crossed Alf Tombs and taken a beating for it. There was nothing Saul liked more than a criminal bearing a grudge; they had a tendency to let their mouths run away with them. Sadly, the bloke hadn’t shown his face. Either he’d been at home licking his wounds or he’d decided to stay away from his regular haunts. Still, he’d surface eventually, maybe tonight or tomorrow, and when he did, Saul would be there with a round of drinks and a sympathetic ear.
Tombs was at the top of every London cop’s ‘Most Wanted’ list. The man was responsible for half the crime in the capital. He’d started young, robbing shops and houses, and through the years had progressed to more ambitious and lucrative jobs. Post offices were a speciality. Recently there had been a spate of smash-and-grabs at high-end jewellers in the West End. They had Tombs written all over them. The police could pull him in, question him, search his gaff – and they frequently did – but without any evidence, they were powerless to act.
Saul began to walk through the wasteland, heading for Mansfield Road. This end of Kellston, flattened by bombs, had an eerie feel to it. On the ground there were everyday items mixed in with the rubble: a teaspoon, broken cups and saucers, the handle of a saucepan. He closed his mind to the people who had died here. If he let one ghost in, the rest might try to follow, and there wasn’t room in his head for all that sorrow.
He ran his tongue along dry lips. He craved a drink, but the pubs weren’t open yet. Course, there were always places to go if you needed a snifter, illegal joints hidden away in back-street basements, but he didn’t fancy any of those dingy rooms with their dubious clientele. Not today. Not when the sun was shining. Anyway, he didn’t want to take the chance. All too often the black dog was lurking in those gloomy dens, ready to attach itself to his side, to pull him into darkness.
Once he reached the road, Saul strolled down to the high street and went into Connolly’s. The café, a gathering place for the locals, was moderately busy without being crowded. He chose a table towards the back and sat down. He saw Elsa ferrying plates and mugs of tea across the room, and she saw him too. Neither acknowledged the other.
It was another few minutes before she came over. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Tea,’ he said. ‘Ta.’
‘You want something to eat?’
‘What’s on?’
‘Faggots,’ she said. ‘That’s the special. Or there’s cottage pie, liver, baked potatoes.’
Saul thought about it. He had an empty feeling inside him, but wasn’t sure if it was hunger. He looked into her eyes; they were blank, as though she’d never met him before. ‘What do you recommend?’
‘Cottage pie,’ she said.
‘I’ll have that.’
Elsa nodded, scribbled down the order in her notebook, turned away, went back to the counter, tore out the page and put it through a spike. Then she moved on to the next customer.
While he waited for his food, Saul watched her criss-crossing the room, sliding between tables, clearing the used plates onto trays and wiping down the surfaces. Elsa couldn’t be described as beautiful, but she moved with effortless grace, like a dancer on a stage. Her face was sharp and angular, with high cheekbones and dark hooded eyes. How long since they first met? It must be getting on for two years now.
To look at her, you’d never guess she was doing anything other than her job. But she was all eyes and ears, watching and listening, taking in every scrap of information. She knew all the villains in the area, who their mates were, who they were married to and who they were screwing on the side. She knew when a job was in the offing, and who was working with whom. Sometimes she knew where the stolen goods were stashed. No one took any notice of a waitress; she was invisible, like a ghost sliding by.
Saul saw her, though. He saw her naked, had sex with her – he would never call it making love – but still knew as little about her as when their paths had first crossed. He didn’t mind this; preferred it, in fact. They weren’t in that kind of a relationship. If pressed, he’d be hard pushed to put an actual name to it. Convenient, perhaps? He had no deep feelings for her. He didn’t even like her that much. She was moody and secretive, distant and sarcastic, the very opposite of everything he found attractive in a woman.
Once, he had asked her why she did it, why she chose to inform.
‘For the dough, of course,’ she’d replied scornfully. ‘What else?’
He suspected that wasn’t the whole story. There was more to it, some other motivation, but he wasn’t interested in finding out what. That was her business, not his. Saul never paid her for sex – he would have viewed such an exchange as demeaning – but with money changing hands for the information she gave him, usually before or after they’d screwed, he supposed, to an outsider, that the line might be somewhat blurred as to what he was actually paying for.
Elsa brought the food and placed the plate, cutlery and mug of tea in front of him. As she leaned forward, he caught a faint whiff of vanilla.
‘Tonight,’ she said softly. ‘Nine o’clock?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
Then she was gone, without another word. He kept his gaze on the table, resisting the urge to follow her with his eyes. He picked up the mug and drank. The tea had a dusty taste, as though the leaves had been dried out and reused. He wondered what she had for him. Something good, he hoped, something that would help him nail another lowlife. There were some, he was sure, who wouldn’t approve of his methods, but he didn’t give a damn. So far as he was concerned, the end always justified the means.
6
Judith gazed out of the window as the train rattled through the outskirts of London. Rows of houses stood back to back, their yards full of washing flapping in the wind. It was a sunless morning, with thin grey clouds racing across the sky. The carriage was full, the passengers squashed together, but she was barely aware of her fellow travellers. In her head, she was going over a plan of action for when she arrived at Euston.
Kellston would be her starting point. Once she found her way there, she would book into a B&B and then start knocking on doors. She glanced down at the open book in her lap. On Saturday, after Charlotte’s wedding reception, she had gone to the bookshop and asked if they had any road maps of London. Mr Buchan had scratched his chin, said there wasn’t much call for that kind of thing but that he might have something in the second-hand section. He had disappeared into the basement and come back five minutes later with a dog-eared copy of the A–Z Atlas of London and Suburbs.
She traced the route with her finger: left out of Kellston station, right up the high street and then right again into Mansfield Road. It seemed straightforward enough. She could only hope that one of the residents not only remembered Dan but knew where he was now. Communities like these were close, weren’t they? If he had come back, someone would be aware of it.
Judith’s plan B was to visit the local library, where hopefully they would have a list of all the locksmiths in the district. Dan could be working for one of them. If she drew a blank, she would have to extend the search to the West End, where the Daily Mirror picture had been taken.
Both of these plans seemed to her eminently sensible. She had brought along with her the only photograph she had of Dan, taken on their wedding day. Although she had the Mirror picture with her too, it wouldn’t be much use for identification purposes. It could, however, be essential if she wanted to track down Alfred Tombs. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Charles Rigby had painted a fearsome portrait of the man: Tombs was clearly a criminal of the worst kind, and not the sort of person she would ever want to approach. She would do it, though, if she had to. There was no point in her coming to London if she wasn’t going to explore every possible avenue. What was the worst that could happen? Her stomach shifted uneasily. No, she wasn’t going to think about it. She would cross that scary bridge only if and when she had to.
The train finally pulled into Euston, and Judith retrieved her case from the overhead shelf. She got off, walked along the platform, showed her ticket to the man at the barrier and passed on through to the crowded station concourse. Following the signs, she descended to the Tube by escalator, feeling a certain sense of wonder that she was actually in London. This was the capital, the place where everywhere happened, a far cry from the small-town comings and goings of Westport. Recalling Annie’s warnings, she held on tightly to her handbag. Imagine being robbed as soon as she got here! She glanced over her shoulder. No one was paying her any attention.