‘This is Teddy,’ introduces Mo. ‘Terry, this ’ere’s Mr Leslie Holt, an old mate.’
Teddy steps onto black and white polished tiles as Holt shuts the door behind them. Holt turns to find Teddy holding out his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,’ says Teddy shyly with downcast eyes.
‘Blimey,’ responds Holt over Teddy’s head to Mo. ‘He’s got good manners, ain’t he?’ He takes Teddy’s hand and shakes it, addressing him earnestly. ‘I’m very pleased indeed to make your acquaintance.’ He winks at Mo.
Mo inclines his head to Teddy’s ear. ‘Never you worry about Les, mate — ’e’s just the chauffeur. Mind you, if ever you need something a bit out of reach, ’e’s your man.’
Holt releases Teddy’s hand, and Teddy turns back to Mo, seeking an explanation. Mo waves away the unspoken enquiry and steers Teddy gently down the hall after Holt to an open door from whence emanates a hubbub of conversation. Holt leads them into a large tall-ceilinged sitting-room. It is comfortably and expensively furnished, a desk bearing leather-bound books to one side, a bay window fronting the square containing a drinks cabinet and a television and, in the centre of the room, a large couch before a marble-topped occasional table with half-finished drinks on it.
On the couch sit two men. The older one on the left is Lord Boothby. He wears a three-piece suit and a bowtie, a carnation in his buttonhole and a silk handkerchief protruding from his jacket pocket. He has greying hair and dark circles under his eyes. Next to him is Ronnie Kray, wearing a double-breasted suit and silk tie, with very dark hair brushed back from a low brow. His eyes seem droopy, as if he’s struggling to stay awake. Facing them, and standing in the corner of the room, is a man wearing a rather shiny suit pointing a camera at the men sitting together on the couch.
‘Just for the scrapbook, you say?’ says Boothby.
‘That’s right, Bob,’ replies Kray. ‘I like me picture taken with important people, that’s all. I got Judy Garland, George Raft — lots of ’em.’
Boothby frowns, not entirely happy with the proposal, but he sighs in acquiescence. ‘Very well. Come on then, Leslie,’ he says, patting the space beside him, ‘sit back down.’
Holt resumes his place on the couch, the three men pose and the photographer clicks. There’s a pop, and the room is momentarily illuminated by the flash.
‘Would you like to shake hands for this one?’ asks the photographer, his index finger flicking between Boothby and Kray.
‘Yeah, good idea,’ says Kray, and he turns and offers his hand. The two men grip and look back at the camera.
‘Just a tick,’ says the cameraman, fiddling in his jacket pocket for a replacement bulb. The men wait, holding their pose until the camera shutter clicks again. ‘That’s got it,’ he says, and his subjects relax.
‘Is that all, Ron?’ asks the cameraman.
Kray nods briefly and dismisses the photographer with a wave of his hand, who lifts his bag from the floor and slips out. Kray gathers together some documents from the marble table, shuffling them into a pile. Boothby places a large wooden cigar case on top of the folder and stands. Kray sits back, a heavy tumbler of drink in his hand, and watches as the older man walks around the coffee table to address Mo and Teddy.
‘Well now, who do we have here?’
Holt stands to make the introductions. ‘Lord Boothby, I think you’ve met Mo before; he works with Ronnie.’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Boothby amiably, but his eyes remain fixed throughout on Teddy. ‘And this delightful young man?’ He smiles widely and Mo smells the reek of a sixty-a-day smoking habit from the man’s mouth. Boothby has gaps on either side of his upper incisors and the remaining teeth are stained yellow.
Mo answers. ‘This is my very good friend Mr Edward Behr. He’s from Warwick.’
‘Coventry,’ corrects Teddy, so quietly as to be almost inaudible.
‘What was that?’ asks Boothby, leaning forward to catch the answer.
‘Coventry,’ repeats Teddy, only slightly louder.
Boothby envelops Teddy’s hand in his own. He doesn’t so much shake it as simply hold it gently as if searching for a pulse. ‘Ah, Coventry, yes, I know it well. I was there for the opening of the technology college. And so now you’re paying us a visit in London, yes?’
Teddy nods, pulling his hand away from Boothby’s.
‘Well it’s lovely to meet you,’ Boothby says. He turns to Holt and pats him affectionately on the bottom. ‘Get our young guest a drink, will you, Leslie? There’s some pop in the kitchen.’
‘Sure, Bob. Come on, then,’ says Holt, and he reopens the door and leads the relieved Teddy back out into the corridor.
Kray stands and collects the documents from the table. ‘Enjoying Leslie, I see,’ he says, smirking slightly.
Boothby, watching Holt’s departing back, shrugs artlessly. ‘What can I tell you, Ronnie?’ he answers. ‘I love the boy.’
Kray looks hard at the peer for a second, and then chuckles. ‘Fair enough. So,’ and he taps the folder in his hand to bring the discussion back to business, ‘you’ll give us a bell, right?’
‘Yes, as I’ve promised. But I need a few days to give the matter serious consideration. I can’t just jump in.’
‘Now, Bob, don’t leave it too long,’ warns Kray. ‘This sort of chance comes once in a lifetime. And the boy?’
‘Yes,’ replies Boothby, distractedly. ‘Charming. Just as you promised.’
‘Good. Give me a sec,’ says Kray, turning his attention to Mo. ‘’Ere, Mo.’ He nods at Teddy, who can be seen through the open kitchen door. He keeps his voice low. ‘Well done. He’ll do nicely. Where’d you find him?’
‘At the “Stow”, hiding behind the bins. He’d not eaten for days.’
‘Runaway?’
Mo shrugs. ‘I guess so. But he don’t say much.’
‘Have you?’ asks Kray with a salacious wink.
Mo grins. ‘Nah. He would, I think. And Jesus, Ronnie, he’s lovely, but … I dunno. Just couldn’t do it.’
Kray looks sceptical. ‘He’s been kipping at your gaff for a week, ain’t he? And you with just the one bed? Come off it. I weren’t born yesterday.’
‘Honest, Ronnie, I ain’t laid a finger on ’im,’ insists Mo.
Kray shrugs. ‘Whatever. Don’t forget to collect the money from the Sicilians tonight. I don’t want to remind you again, all right?’
‘I won’t forget.’
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday, 27 June
The acquisition of the Regal Billiard Hall on Eric Street, Mile End a few years earlier had marked the start of the Kray twins’ rise to their current prominence as two of London’s most notorious villains. They discovered it when it was a failing business; rough, unmaintained and losing money. Once they decided it would make the perfect home for the Firm, the failure of the business seemed somehow to accelerate. There was an unexplained increase in the drunken violence and damage to the hall; green baize was frequently ripped; fireworks were let off in the bar and the landlord received threats that the place would be burned down. The manager decided he’d had enough and left. Shortly thereafter the owners were delighted to receive an offer from the two youngsters, still in their early twenties, to manage the place. He offered them a tenancy for the paltry sum of a fiver a week.
Mysteriously, once the Krays were in charge, the violence ended. Reggie gave the place a coat of paint and men were hired to brush the tables, man the bars and keep order when the Krays were not themselves present. It soon started turning a profit, and within only a few months it had become a safe haven for members of the Firm and other criminals to relax, do business, store and dispose of stolen goods and meet men with the skills required for the next job.
The Regal became the base where members of the Firm would assemble to tool up and launch what Ronnie Kray called their “little wars” on adjoining gangs, and their raids on businesses, bars, restaurants and clubs whose owners resisted paying the pro
tection money demanded by the twins. It was also a place of entertainment, where Ronnie Kray would pull some of his most comical stunts, such as when he found a giant from a local circus and invited him to the bar for the evening, or the time when he brought in a donkey wearing a straw hat and insisted he was teaching it to speak English.
For a long time it was the place to go for any East End “face”, where the Krays held court and no one wanted to miss the night’s entertainment. Although the twins later moved upmarket, with Esmeralda’s Barn in the West End becoming their most prestigious profit centre and the place where they liked to see and be seen with their celebrity and sporting friends, the Regal remained their spiritual home.
‘Where the fuck is everyone?’ demands Ronnie, throwing his jacket over the back of his accustomed chair, carefully placed so he can see the doors and everything going on in the bar. ‘And there’s no smoke!’
Ronnie Kray loves the hall to be full of cigarette smoke; he’s been known to hand out packets of cigarettes and order everyone in the bar to ‘Smoke up! Smoke up!’ to increase the fog density until it was as thick as a peasouper. But in the absence of the twins, the night’s entertainment was poor and most of the punters drifted away. Only four of the fourteen billiard tables now have lights illuminated above them, and the bar holds no more than four or five determined drinkers, one of whom is asleep on the bar with his head on his hands.
‘Drink, Ron?’ asks his brother, Reggie, as he lifts the hinged end of the bar and goes behind the pumps.
‘Nah. Billy! Billy!’ calls Ronnie, and a young head pokes out from the doors at the end of the hall.
‘Yes, Ron?’ it asks.
‘Make us a pot of tea, will yer? And get some biscuits.’
The front door bangs open violently and everyone awake in the billiard hall looks up. Mo staggers through the door. The lower half of his face and his shirt are bright red with blood. Ronnie is the first to see him and leaps out of his armchair to support him into the bar.
‘Forget the tea, Billy!’ shouts Ronnie, his arm under Mo’s shoulders. ‘Get us the first aid kit! And a bowl of warm water!’
Reggie and another man run out of the door through which Mo has entered to check the street. It’s deserted.
Ronnie lowers Mo into the armchair he has just vacated.
‘I’m all right,’ gasps Mo through bloodied and split lips. ‘It looks worse’n it is.’
A tin with a white cross on its lid and a steaming bowl of water appear simultaneously and are placed on the low table in front of the injured man. Ronnie opens the tin and takes out a piece of gauze, dips it into the warm water, and begins wiping the blood from Mo’s face with surprising tenderness.
‘What the fuck happened?’ asks Reg, pouring brandy into a glass from behind the bar.
‘I was collecting from the Sicilians at the 66 Club. I never got further than the lobby.’
‘Who did it?’
‘Leo and two others. The smaller Mancuso cousin was one of them. I think I managed to stab him, but it all happened so quickly. By the time I woke up on the pavement the club had shut for the night.’
Mo reaches up and feels above his left ear, where the last blow he remembers landed. Under his hair he feels a large lump. ‘This was the one that knocked me out. That bastard, Leo.’ He takes a deep breath, and winces. ‘I think they gave me a bit of a kicking as well,’ he says, feeling his ribs tentatively.
Ronnie changes position and crouches in front of Mo between the injured man’s open legs. He gently undoes the buttons of Mo’s saturated shirt. A wide abrasion and an emerging bruise can be seen stretching from under Mo’s right arm across his chest to his sternum.
‘Can you breathe in properly?’ asks Ronnie.
Mo takes a slow deep breath, his eyes closing in pain as his lungs inflate. ‘Yeah, I think so. It just hurts.’
‘Yeah, well, I doubt anything’s broken, but you’re gonna be sore for a bit.’
Reggie brings the glass of brandy and puts it in Mo’s hand. ‘Drink that.’
Ronnie returns to washing Mo’s face, the water in the bowl slowly turning pink. After a few further minutes Ronnie sits back on his haunches, apparently satisfied.
‘You’ll live,’ he announces, and he leans forward and kisses Mo gently on the lips.
Mo looks surprised. ‘I thought we’d finished with all that,’ he says, smiling.
‘So we ’ave. Just don’t like to see my little soldier gettin’ ’urt.’ He stands. ‘I’ll get someone to take you back to your gaff.’
Mo rises cautiously. ‘No, that’s fine, thanks —’
‘You just do as you’re told. Reg and I’ll discuss what to do next. That little lad weren’t with you, was ’e?’
‘Nah, course not. Didn’t think it sensible to take ’im. He’s tucked up in bed.’
Ronnie nods. ‘Well done. All right, off you go. We can manage without you for a coupla days. You’re gonna feel worse by tomorrow.’
Charles walks towards the River Thames, the smell of the saltwater from Shadwell Basin to his right and the river ahead of him gradually growing stronger. He’s wearing workmen’s trousers, a baggy shirt with the sleeves rolled to his biceps and a flat cap pulled low over his brow.
He passes the stall from which he and his cousin, Izzy, used to buy (and occasionally steal) fruit during the war, just as its owner, Mrs Jacob, is carting the boxes of unsold produce back into the shop. Charles has to pause for a moment as the woman who must, he imagines, now be in her late seventies, hefts a pallet of apples to her enormous chest. She looks up and grimaces, and Charles smiles at her and makes to walk on.
‘You could at least give me an ’and, Charlie Horowitz,’ she chides, moving towards the shop door.
‘Hello Ada,’ Charles grins. ‘Surprised you still recognised me.’
‘What, forget a little tea leaf like you? Not bloody likely,’ she says without rancour. Her voice is broken rubble, courtesy of a sixty-year habit of forty Players and half a pint of gin every day. She’d have made a fortune as a jazz singer, thinks Charles.
He holds out his hands to take the box of apples off the old woman. ‘Ha!’ she says. ‘Don’t be daft, son. I could still go a round or two with you,’ and she disappears with her load into the shop.
Charles laughs but nonetheless scans the pavement around him, identifies what looks like the heaviest item, a huge wicker basket of potatoes, and lifts it, following Ada inside. The old greengrocer must have guessed that Charles was going to follow her anyway, because she calls over her shoulder: ‘Just pop it down with the rest, to your right.’
‘Shutting up early?’ asks Charles.
‘Yeah. Completely dead this afternoon. Must be the good weather.’
Charles is about to turn to collect something else when Ada touches him gently on the arm. ‘I heard about Izzy,’ she says in a soft growl. ‘I’m so sorry, Charlie. He was a right rogue, your cousin, but he ’ad a good heart.’
Charles lowers his head. It’s only a few short months since Ronnie Kray caused Izzy’s death. The lighterman died right before Charles’s eyes. Charles hasn’t yet explored his feelings. His grief is locked in a small box somewhere inside him to be considered at a later date. He knows that it’s this facet of his personality that most frustrates Sally. She complains that whatever happens to him, for good or ill, never seems to touch him fully. Instead it is filed, catalogued and locked away, theoretically for later analysis and experience, but in reality often forgotten.
Charles looks away from the old woman, suppressing the constriction in his throat.
‘Your aunt came by last week,’ says Ada.
‘Aunt Bea?’ asks Charles, with a faint pang of guilt. He promised himself that he would make time to see his Aunt Beatrice regularly after Izzy’s death, but after the first few weeks he found himself too busy with work, training and viewing properties with Sally, so the visits became fortnightly. Indeed, he thinks, it’s probably almost four weeks since his last
trip to the tall old house in Shadwell full of silence and memories. He wonders briefly if he might pop in before going to the gym but realises that he won’t have time.
‘Yeah. She seemed OK, in the circumstances. The council have people going in,’ says Ada. ‘’Spect you know.’
‘Yes, I helped set that up,’ says Charles. ‘Sorry, Ada, I’d love to chat, but I’m meeting someone. Be well.’ Charles turns and steps back out onto the pavement.
‘Here!’ calls the old woman from behind him.
Charles spins round to see something travelling at speed out of the dark interior towards his face. He gets his right hand up just in time for a crisp green apple to smack smartly into his palm.
‘You always was fast, Charlie, I’ll give you that.’
Charles smiles, looks at the apple and makes to toss it back, but Ada puts up an arthritic grubby hand.
‘Nah. Keep it for yer tea.’ She turns away. ‘And behave!’ she calls after him.
Charles lifts the apple in salutation and thanks. ‘Will do!’ he calls back.
He eats the apple as he crosses the steel girder bridge spanning the Shadwell Basin and walks the last hundred yards to the Prospect of Whitby. Since 1520 the waterside inn, known to its regulars as “the Prospect”, has been a regular haunt of Thames’ watermen, lightermen and bargemen. It has also been the home to many of the Thames’ lowlifes, pirates, smugglers and footpads. The distinction between the two groups was always a bit fuzzy, and the inn’s clientele kept the adjacent Execution Dock busy for several centuries.
The branch of Charles’s family headed by his late uncle Jonjo Milstein were lightermen, and the Prospect was Charles’s second home for a couple of years during the War when he, Jonjo and Izzy were lightering up to twenty hours a day on the river. There Charles grew up, took his first tentative steps away from his stifling parents and learned to look after himself. He’d been boxing since a child, but it was at the Prospect that he added to his considerable Marquis of Queensbury skills by learning how to street fight. It was also there that, in 1940, he got involved in an act of violence that made his reputation among certain of London’s criminals and gave him the deepest and most enduring scars.
Corrupted: Murder and cover-up at the heart of government (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 3