by Colin Murray
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AFTER A DEAD DOG
NO HEARTS, NO ROSES *
* available from Severn House
NO HEARTS, NO ROSES
Colin Murray
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2011
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2011 by Colin Murray.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Murray, Colin, 1949-
No hearts, no roses.
1. Motion picture industry–Employees–Fiction.
2. Missing persons–Investigation–Fiction. 3. London
(England)–History–1951- –Fiction. 4. Suspense
fiction.
I. Title
823.9′2-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-185-9 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6998-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-328-1 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel;
Il vient comme un complice, à pas de loup; le ciel
Se ferment lentement comme un grand alcôve,
Et l’homme impatient se change en bête fauve . . .
From: ‘Le Crepuscule du soir’,
Charles Baudelaire (1821–67)
ONE
Beverley Beaumont wasn’t the most glamorous star at Hoxton Films – that was probably Dolores Hart, who Les Jackson was touting as Hoxton’s answer to Diana Dors – but she added a touch of elegance to my drab office. Although Miss Beaumont was gracious enough not to look around disapprovingly at the bare floorboards, dirty paintwork and grubby window, it was clear this was not her natural habitat, though malicious studio gossip suggested otherwise.
‘Just moved in,’ I said, which was a lie. ‘Haven’t had time to sort the place out yet,’ I added, which was true, sort of. Well, it was true if you substituted ‘couldn’t be bothered’ for ‘haven’t had time’. ‘Can I offer you anything? Tea?’
A little wave of one white-gloved hand dismissed the very idea of any refreshments.
‘Mr Jackson suggested I talk to you,’ she said, lifting her head slightly to look in my direction. ‘I have a problem.’ Her voice was husky, and I suspected that she’d modelled it on Joan Greenwood’s. When I didn’t reply she continued, ‘It’s a delicate matter, and Mr Jackson recommended you highly.’
Well, he would. It’d been months since I’d come close to earning my retainer.
I smiled at her encouragingly, but she probably misunderstood and thought that I was beaming with pleasure at Les Jackson’s approval.
She lowered her head and contemplated the neat, white handbag that nestled, like a small animal, on the dove-grey skirt of what had to be the very latest Chanel or Christian Dior suit, the new A line perhaps – whatever that was. She hesitated, then undid the clasp of the handbag and slid her hand in. She placed a slim lighter on my desk and extracted a cigarette from a silver case. She reached into her bag again and took out an ebony cigarette holder and inserted the cigarette. She looked at me expectantly.
Most – well, all – of the women I knew used Bryant and May’s finest, and it took me a moment to cotton on but, as soon as I understood, I leaned forward, clumsily clicked the lighter into life and nervously held the flame out for her. She placed her hand on mine to steady it and brought it nearer to her face. It was a strangely intimate moment. I could see the powder that lightly dusted her cheeks and a small mole on her neck. Her perfume – I couldn’t think of it as scent – was almost overwhelming up so close. She held on to my hand long after the cigarette was alight and then, abruptly, nodded her thanks.
I resumed my seat and pushed the glass ashtray towards her. She breathed a thin, blue-grey stream of smoke out of her mouth, and I watched it writhe slowly in the weak beam of sunlight that insinuated its way through the window behind her.
She was a very attractive woman in a slim, Tallulah Bankhead kind of way, but she was curiously unanimated, carefully restrained. It was difficult to imagine her sharing La Bankhead’s disdain for underwear.
‘It’s about my brother,’ she said, looking straight at me.
‘Tell me about him,’ I said.
‘What do you want to know?’ she said. She seemed a little surprised, evidently unprepared for anything that deviated from the script she had carefully rehearsed.
‘Name, age, that kind of thing,’ I said, reaching for my pad and pencil.
‘Jonathan Harrison. He’s twenty. I call him Jon. Without an aitch.’
I diligently wrote everything down. ‘And where does he live?’
‘He was at Cambridge, Downing College, studying – I mean, reading English. We were all proud of him. The first in the family to go to university.’ She had become a little animated, obviously back to her prepared script. ‘But he’s left and come to London.’
‘And you want me to find him?’ I said.
‘I just want to know that he’s all right.’ She sounded like she meant it. Rather unkindly I thought of the rehearsal time that must have gone into that. ‘And –’ she placed her cigarette in the ashtray and rummaged in her bag again – ‘I’d like to give him this.’ She pulled out a bulky brown envelope that I could see was stuffed with cash.
I ignored the proffered envelope. ‘How do you know he’s in London?’
‘He wrote to me,’ she said, putting the brown envelope on the desk.
The little handbag was proving to be one of the wonders of modern science. From its apparently infinite interior she produced another envelope.
This one I did take from her. It was off-white and creased, with a brown stain that looked like beer or gravy on one corner. It was addressed to her care of Hoxton Films’ Wardour Street office. The blue ink was slightly smudged. There was no stamp, so it had been delivered by hand. Inside there was a small card. It read:
Bev,
Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be all right!
Stony broke though. I’ll be in touch.
Love, Jon
I flipped it over. It was the card from an Old Compton Street drinking club. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It was undated.
‘When did you get this?’ I said.
‘My agent picked it up this morning,’ she said. ‘With all the other post.’
‘Do you know when it arrived?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He picks up the post once a week.’
‘So this could have arrived any time in the last week?’
She nodded.
Oh well, it was still a start – just even less of one than I’d thought. ‘Do you have a photograph?’ I said.
She handed over a small snapshot of her standing next to a solemn, good-looking young man. It had been taken at the coast
somewhere. The sea stretched out behind them, and the end of an ornate pier jutted into the right-hand side. Brighton perhaps . . .
‘Will you give him this?’ she said, pushing the brown envelope towards me.
I shook my head. ‘If I find him, you can give it to him yourself.’ I’d been caught like that before. ‘Money?’ says the recipient. ‘He never give me no money.’
‘I’m filming for the rest of the week. Mr Jackson will know how to contact me,’ she said, standing up.
I walked her to the door. Jerry was, as he had done twice a day since he’d heard of his death, playing something by Charlie Parker, which meant that there was no one in the shop. Jerry’s clientele leaned towards the Teresa Brewer, Dickie Valentine end of the market. It was a source of great unhappiness to him.
‘What’s the film?’ I asked as I opened the door for her. She looked at me blankly. ‘The picture you’re making at the moment?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘a romantic comedy. Something with “Champagne” or “Chocolates” in the title.’ She paused and looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe it’s both.’
‘Champagne and Chocolates,’ I said. ‘It’s not the best title I’ve come across.’
‘No, that isn’t it,’ she said vaguely. Then she turned and placed a foot on the top step of the steep, dingy staircase. I followed her down.
The old Roller, Les’s pride and joy, was parked, appropriately enough, outside the Gaumont. Where else would Hoxton’s managing director, or whatever Les called himself, like to see the old dear? She must have been nearly as old as me, but the elegant, black machine was wearing better and looked clean and sharp against the pale-yellow stone of the cinema.
Ten small boys were waiting for the Tarzan film to begin – or, more likely, they were waiting for their mate to open the side door and sneak them in – and, in the meantime, they were clustered around the car. The corner of Lea Bridge Road didn’t see too many Rollers. How not to arouse curiosity in Leyton!
We walked slowly across the road in the surprisingly warm afternoon sunshine. The morning’s cloud had all but disappeared.
‘This your car, mister?’ one of the little boys piped up.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘We’re just driving over to France to meet up with my yacht.’
Charlie Lomax, Les’s driver, saw us coming and heaved his considerable bulk out of the car, hastily forcing his cap down over his unruly hair. As always, his dark suit and white shirt looked slightly too small for him, every seam straining.
‘Clear off, you lot,’ he said and scowled at the boys. They ran for it. Charlie had been a boxer in the thirties and had then had a couple of bit parts in films after he’d retired from the ring. His acting career hadn’t come to anything, but Les found him useful to have around and, although he’s over fifty, he’s still big and, with his battered face, scary-looking. The kids weren’t to know that he’s one of the most genial men you’d ever meet.
He put his finger to his cap and opened the rear door for Beverley Beaumont. She turned and looked at me, put her hand on my forearm and said, huskily, ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Gérard.’ I was used to my name being pronounced to rhyme with Herod, and usually I scarcely noticed, but this time I was mildly disappointed. I’d expected her to recognize its French origins.
‘I’ll be in touch if I find anything out, Miss Beaumont,’ I said.
There was the soft whisper of silk stockings as she slid on to the leather seat and then the satisfying clunk of the car door, and I was left standing next to Charlie. His meaty paw thumped into my shoulder.
‘Good to see you, Tone,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘You keeping well?’
‘Yeah, and Mr Jackson keeps me busy.’ He looked around a little nervously. ‘Listen, Tone, can I buy you a drink some time? I’d like to pick your brains.’
‘Sure.’ I nodded at the car. ‘I’m going to be busy for a day or three but . . .’
‘Friday lunchtime sound good? Your pub’s the Antelope, ain’t it?’
I nodded, and his right cross came in again and pounded my shoulder.
‘One o’clock then,’ he said.
I waited until the Roller had pulled away before rubbing at the bruise.
I watched a trolley bus make the perilous turn into Church Road in a crackle of blue electricity, then I ambled back across the road.
I made my way up to my office to the sound of Rosemary Clooney singing ‘The Blues in the Night’. A customer must have sneaked into the shop while I’d been out. If he’d been on his own, Jerry would have played the Artie Shaw version. He didn’t care for the Woody Herman recording.
My office depressed me even more than usual: the bare dusty floor cried out for a rug, the dingy brown walls ached for a fresh coat of paint and the entire space begged me to replace the kitchen table with a proper, polished desk.
Beverley Beaumont had forgotten her lighter and the envelope of money. They lay next to the ashtray where her cigarette continued to smoulder, smoke rising from it in a thin, blue-grey plume. Her perfume lingered too. It was subtle and delicate. I didn’t recognize it, so it obviously wasn’t Evening in Paris. I stubbed out the cigarette.
I picked up the lighter, envelope and cigarette holder and drifted into my other room, where I usually slept, sometimes ate and occasionally lived.
Fluffy, Jerry’s ironically named, huge, pale-orange cat, was curled up in the centre of my bed. The scars on my forearms from the last time I tried to move him itched a warning, and I decided to leave him be.
I sank into my grandfather’s old leather armchair and listened to the distant voice of Rosemary Clooney as she tried – unconvincingly – to sound like the whistle of a train.
The envelope contained seven fivers, four oncers and two ten-bob notes, so it wasn’t as stuffed as I’d thought. The cash had just been crammed in. The lighter was inscribed ‘To Bev from Jon with love Christmas 1954’.
A student who could afford to give his sister a silver lighter for Christmas shouldn’t need forty quid from her less than four months later. On the other hand, I could think of plenty of blokes who went from broke to flush and back again in less time than that. Of course, they were usually petty criminals with little understanding of even the most elementary principles of sound domestic economic theory as set out by WC Fields in David Copperfield.
The music stopped, and there was a refreshing silence. Rather sourly, I guessed that the customer must have insisted on buying ‘Mambo Italiano’ and Jerry was sulking. He’d probably play ‘Lonely Ballerina’ by Mantovani soon, just to really depress himself. There are times when living above a record shop can be a little wearing.
Careful not to disturb the slumbering feline, I slipped out of the room and down the stairs, and then, knocking lightly on the door off the narrow passageway, I went into the shop.
It was messier than usual, with sheet music in little heaps all over the floor and opened boxes of records blocking the entrance. Jerry, of course, was as dapper as ever. He was standing in the centre of the room, thoughtfully stroking his black goatee, in black trousers, black leather waistcoat and charcoal-grey shirt (even Jerry couldn’t ignore the associations of a black shirt) with a yellow tie splashed across it. He’d taken to wearing mainly black back in February. He inclined his head in a small bow.
‘Tony,’ he said. ‘How goes it, my friend?’ He threw his hands up in a little gesture of despair. ‘Two deliveries in one morning. When troubles come, they come not single spies but in battalions.’ He gave me a sly smile. ‘But what was with the high-class car and the even higher-class broad?’
Jerry had gone to one of the better public schools, but he’d discovered jazz when the GIs arrived and had decided to use a small inheritance to spread the word. Why he’d chosen Leyton to do it in is anyone’s guess.
‘You noticed that, did you?’
He raised his eyebrows. He and probably everyone in a three-mile radius.
‘Work, Jerry,’
I said, ‘just work. Which is why I came down. Can I put these –’ I showed him the envelope, the cigarette holder and the lighter – ‘in your safe?’
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘you know where the key is.’
I did and, as I went behind the counter and retrieved it from the brown teapot on the filing cabinet, I wondered how many other people did. Still, he hadn’t been robbed in the two years I’d been living there.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘that’d be good.’
I stooped down, opened the safe and pushed the stuff to the back of the empty space. No wonder Jerry was so casual about the key. There was nothing in there to take. Which probably explained why he’d never been robbed.
Jerry leaned over the boxes blocking the entrance and flipped the shop sign to ‘Closed’. We left by the side entrance.
Costello’s isn’t much of a café, but it is just opposite us in the little terrace of shops by the Gaumont and it does have an Italian machine – complete with gurgles, steam and froth – and a genuinely lugubrious owner.
He was standing by the door, looking morosely at the sky, his hands stuffed in the pocket of his grubby apron. ‘It’s gonna rain,’ he said by way of greeting.
‘I don’t think so, Enzo,’ Jerry said.
‘Bloody country,’ Enzo said. ‘No papers, and always it rains.’ He turned and walked back into the café. ‘What can I do you for?’
‘Coffee for me, Enzo,’ Jerry said.
‘And for me,’ I said.
‘Anything else?’ Enzo tried successfully to keep any trace of hope out of his voice as he turned to his gleaming coffee machine.
We both shook our heads. We’d ordered Enzo’s egg sandwiches in the past.
We sat at one of the small wooden tables, and Jerry told me about an early recording of Thelonius Monk playing with Coleman Hawkins that he’d acquired. Enzo’s machine growled and roiled like an uneasy bowel, and Mrs Dale’s Diary whispered out from the wireless. Mrs Dale was apparently worried about Jim.
I was worried about Beverley Beaumont. I didn’t think I’d find her brother.