A Dangerous Life (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 2)

by Len Maynard

“Maybe.”

  “You know damned well you were. So don’t be bloody coy about it.”

  Fuller avoided his old guvnor’s penetrating gaze. “This isn’t about me.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Eddie Fuller shook his head.

  “Well, try telling that to Jack Callum if our recent conversations ever come to light.”

  “Jack told me to come and see you, to find out what you knew about Usher and Tony Turner.”

  “Something you have significantly failed to do,” Somers said. “You haven’t mentioned Turner once since you got here.”

  “I was working my way round to it.”

  “Via Albert Klein,” Somers said archly. He rested his cue against the table and put his hands on his hips. “Let’s stop pissing around, shall we? Just tell me what you want from me and what your guvnor wants, and let’s see where that gets us.” He walked to the door and opened it. “Francoise? More coffee please, angel. And when you come back in can you bring that bottle of brandy and two glasses from the lounge.”

  Fuller listened to the French beauty’s muffled response, leaned over the snooker table and sunk a red into the centre pocket.

  After another five shillings had found their way into Charlie Somers’ pocket, the two men sat together on the old, but comfortable, sofa in the corner of the room, the snooker match abandoned.

  “Tony Turner was nothing more than a thrill-seeker and a hanger-on. I think he liked to associate himself with criminals. You see it a lot with theatricals. They see it almost as a duty, as if it somehow adds to their credibility. Personally, I’ve always found it rather pathetic. Tommy Usher embraced it, but that was Tommy, always looking for an angle he could use and, with Tony Turner’s show business connections, he struck gold. So he kept the poor sod around, stroking his ego and mining his contacts for new business opportunities. There was also the matter of the cachet he got from being seen in the press with a famous actor. It lent him a certain respectability. Of course it all turned to shit when Turner met that awful Franklin woman and married her.”

  “You knew Turner’s wife, Lois?”

  Somers grimaced. “I met her a few times. She’s a hideous woman; a lush, and a few saucers short of a tea service, if you want my opinion, but Turner was besotted by her. He thought the sun shone out of her derriere. Carrying on with her while his poor wife lay dying of cancer in hospital, the bastard!” Somers shuddered.

  “And Albert Klein?”

  “A different proposition altogether. He’s an old school villain. Jewish and devout in his faith, attends the synagogue every Sabbath, takes time off from his criminal activities during the Yiddish festivals. But he’s a vicious, nasty piece of work and as crooked as they come.”

  “Worse than Usher?”

  “In some ways, yes. He runs North London like his own private fiefdom, and woe betide any who challenge his position, as the twins from Bethnal Green found when they tried to muscle in on his protection rackets in their area. Klein sent them packing, back to Vallence Road with their tails stuck firmly between their legs.”

  Somers took a mouthful of brandy, swilling the smooth liquor over his tongue, before swallowing it with a contented sigh. “They’ll have him in the end though. They’re mad and dangerous, Reggie and Ronnie, the both of them. Genuine psychopaths. At one time there was talk of Klein and Usher joining forces to consolidate their hold over London, but their cultural differences caused too much conflict. I can’t ever imagine Tommy Usher taking time off for religious holidays. Not when there’s bent money to be made and, for all their similarities, the two of them also had fundamental differences when it came to business.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, drugs were the main one. Klein gets a significant portion of his income from trafficking and dealing in drugs, dope and amphetamines mainly, cocaine and heroin for those who can afford it. It was one area Tommy Usher steered clear of with a passion. He lost his younger brother, Cyril, to a heroin overdose just after the war. After that he wouldn’t have any truck with them. He had an almost pathological hatred of them, and Klein was never going to sacrifice a significant proportion of his income just to climb into bed with him, so the unholy union never happened and the antagonism between them continued.”

  “Do you think Klein could be involved in Tony Turner’s death?”

  “To the best of my knowledge they never actually met, at least, I wasn’t around if they did. Why would you think that?”

  “Because when Turner was found dead, he was made up to look like Tommy Usher, complete with false moustache and fake nose.”

  Somers eyes widened. “Really? Well, I’m blowed.” He drained his glass. “But I can’t see Klein’s fingerprints on it. He and Usher didn’t get on, sure, but there was a mutual admiration there. And they both respected the North/South divide. If Callum’s going down that route with his investigation, I think he’ll hit a brick wall. Honour amongst thieves and all that crap. Another frame before you go?”

  “To give me a chance to win my money back?”

  “Don’t be silly, Eddie,” Somers said with a sly smile.

  16 - SATURDAY MARCH 21ST 1959

  As Jack carried the stepladder along the landing he heard the alarm clock sounding off its shrill bell in Rosie’s room. She had an early start at the baker’s this morning. He set the ladder under the loft hatch and started to climb to release the catch.

  “Couldn’t you sleep, Dad?” Rosie yawned as she came out of her bedroom, hair awry and rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she opened the door to the bathroom.

  “Just looking for something.” Jack released the catch and let the hatch swing down,

  “Is mum awake?”

  Jack shook his head and put his finger to his lips. “It’s only you and me so far, and we’ll try to keep it that way for another hour at least.”

  “Quiet as a mouse,” she whispered and tiptoed into the bathroom.

  Jack hoisted himself into the loft and found the light switch, flicking it on and watching as the 100 watt bulb cast its light over the neatly ordered stacks of boxes, old suitcases and cartons containing rolls of wallpaper and Christmas decorations. The loft was as well ordered as his garden shed. A place for everything and everything in its place, and he had no trouble locating the large suitcase containing back-issues of the Police Gazette stretching back in time to 1950.

  He unfolded a dusty card table onto the loft boards, and then erected a small canvas camping chair. He opened the case, set it down on the table and started going through the old periodicals, starting with the most recent and slowly working his way through the back-issues.

  Thirty minutes later he found the edition he’d been searching for. He flattened it out on the table. Taking up a third of the page was a reproduction of the boxing photograph he’d been sent. Above the photograph the headline read, Senior Officer cleared of Corruption Charges. The three-column story went on to report how detective inspector Charles Somers had been exonerated by an inquiry into police corruption. It charted his relationship with certain gangland figures of whom Thomas Usher was but one.

  The piece ended with the Police Commissioner praising Inspector Somers for his diligent work in gathering intelligence on organized crime in the capital.

  Jack stared at the photograph, at the names printed underneath it, hoping to discover the reason why he’d been sent the boxing shot but, apart from a feeling that one of the other characters, Simon Docherty, looked vaguely familiar, there was nothing more to be gleaned.

  He stared hard at Docherty’s face. He was sure he had never crossed paths with him before, but the man’s face was nagging at something locked in the back of his mind, but refusing to fully reveal itself.

  From down below he could hear stirrings coming from his bedroom. Annie was awake and moving about the room.

  Rolling up the copy of the Gazette, he stuffed it into the pocket of his cardigan and put the suitcase away. He turned off the light and lowered himself out of th
e loft in time to see his wife emerging from the bedroom. Annie looked up at him and yawned as he started to descend. “I thought I heard someone moving about up there. I guessed it’d be you.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Don’t worry, you didn’t. The milkman stole that honour from you with his bloody whistling. But once I was awake I heard the noises from up there and for a moment I thought we had rats, then I realised you weren’t in bed. What have you been doing?”

  “Looking for something.” He tugged the Police Gazette from his pocket and held it aloft. “I found it.”

  “Good. What time did you turn in last night? I didn’t hear you come up.”

  “After one.” Jack closed the loft hatch and shut up the stepladder.

  Annie shook her head. “I’m thinking candles and burning them at both ends?”

  “You worry too much.” He pecked her on the cheek.

  “Well, someone’s got to. Eggs for breakfast?”

  He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “Just tea and toast for me. I’ll have to get a move on if you want me to drop in at Howards about that television before I go to the station.”

  “How did your meeting with Charlie Somers go?” Jack asked when Eddie Fuller came into the office.

  “It cost me fifteen bob.” Fuller sat down at his desk heavily.

  “How come?”

  “Snooker. The old bugger took me to the cleaners.”

  “Serves you right. Did he shed any light on Usher’s relationship with Tony Turner?”

  “Oh, yes,” Fuller said, and spent the next thirty minutes recapping his conversation with his old guvnor.

  “And what did he have to say about Benny Talbot and his argument with the number 29?”

  “The Met treated it as an accident.”

  Jack was silent for a moment. Eventually he leaned forward in his seat. “What happened to the camera?”

  Fuller looked at him quizzically.

  “Benny Talbot’s camera. Who was he trying to photograph when he met with his accident?”

  “I didn’t ask, and I doubt that Charlie would know. It wasn’t his case.”

  “Shame. I’d like to see that roll of film.”

  “Why?

  Jack shrugged. “I’m not sure really. It’s just an idle thought buzzing around my brain at the moment.” He picked up his mug of station tea and took a swig, shuddered and set it down again. “Bloody awful. Who makes this stuff? What about Albert Klein? Did Charlie have anything to say about him?”

  “He’s a North London villain and devout Jew, who respects the Sabbath and observes all the religious holidays…”

  “And is good to his mother, no doubt. Any history between him and Usher that Turner might have fallen foul of?”

  “Charlie can’t recall Klein and Turner ever meeting.”

  Jack sighed. “Round and round in circles,” he said, almost to himself. “Well, let’s see what Frank comes up with. He’s working his way through his half of the list Lois Turner gave us. I believe he’s up in the West End today, trying to speak to that dancer chappie.”

  “Fred Tozer.”

  “Yes, him. It’ll probably be another dead end, but who knows?”

  Frank Lesser stood in the wings of the Carlton theatre, watching the colourful and athletic dance routine play out on the stage. Fred Tozer stood out from the rest of the twenty-strong troupe, not only because he was centre stage, but also for something Tozer had that set him apart from the rest. Charisma. Lesser had seen it before in the wrestling ring. Some performers had it and could have the crowd eating out of their hand, others didn’t and would remain lower to middle card throughout their careers.

  Tozer had it in spades, which was probably the reason that it was his name up in lights, above the title of the revue.

  The tap routine ended and an assistant threw Tozer a towel for him to wipe the sweat from his freely perspiring face. Then the assistant spoke quietly into the dancer’s ear and pointed towards Lesser standing in the wings.

  Still wiping the rivulets of perspiration from his face Tozer walked towards him, calling back over his shoulder to the troupe. “Take five! And then we go again, from the top.”

  A susurration of groans rippled across the stage.

  “Are you Lester?” he said.

  “Lesser, sir. Detective sergeant, Welwyn and Hatfield Police.”

  Tozer’s eyes narrowed. “Bit out of your jurisdiction, Sergeant, aren’t you?”

  “It concerns an incident that happened in our area a few days ago. Can we go somewhere and talk? I have a few questions.”

  Tozer regarded him quizzically for a few moments and then shrugged. “Very well. We can talk in my dressing room.” He walked past Lesser. “This way.”

  Lesser followed him through the maze of narrow walkways that constituted the backstage area of the theatre, until they came to a corridor with a door at the end. The door had a star affixed to it. Tozer opened it and held the door open for Lesser to enter.

  Tozer sat down at a dressing table that had a large mirror surrounded by small light bulbs. They showed up the fine age-lines wrinkling Tozer’s face that hadn’t been apparent before. He was still a good-looking man, with almost symmetrical features, a finely chiselled nose above lips that could be called voluptuous. His body was lean and toned and the muscles of his legs were clearly defined under the sheer nylon of his black tights. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a wrestling ring, Lesser thought.

  “Grab a seat.” Tozer pointed to a wooden chair standing in the corner.

  Lesser grabbed it and set it down a yard away from the man.

  “So, what do you want to ask me about?”

  “Tony Turner,” Lesser said, and watched a cloud spread over Tozer’s face.

  “He’s dead. There were a couple of paragraphs in The Stage. It said his death was being treated as suspicious and the police…” He slapped his forehead. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Lesser nodded.

  “Well, I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you think.”

  “Why should I think that, sir?”

  Tozer shook his head. “God knows, it’s not as if I didn’t have reason to, but no, Sergeant, I’m not your man.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Lesser produced his notebook from his pocket. “Can you tell me where you were last Tuesday afternoon, the 17th?”

  “Yes. Here.”

  “And do you have any witnesses who can corroborate that?”

  Tozer smiled. “Yes. About five hundred of them in fact. We give a matinee performance on Tuesdays.”

  Lesser smiled indulgently and jotted it down in his notebook. “What time did the show end?”

  “It runs from two-thirty ’til five, with a fifteen-minute intermission.”

  “And you were on stage all that time, apart from the intermission of course?”

  “Come to the show, Sergeant, and you can see for yourself what a demanding performance it is.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Lesser said, with no intention of ever doing so.

  Further conversation was halted as the dressing room door was thrown open violently. It crashed against the wall and a short, bald man stormed into the room.

  “There you are, you bastard!” he yelled at Tozer, ran across the room and yanked the dancer out of his seat. “I ought to smash your bleedin’ face in.”

  Lesser sprang to his feet and within seconds had the fat man pinned against the wall, his arm forced up between his shoulder blades. The fat man yelped. “Here, what’s your game?” Tears sprang to his eyes as Lesser applied more pressure to his arm.

  Fred Tozer stood there, a look of wry amusement on his face. “It’s all right, Sergeant. You can let him go.”

  Lesser looked at him uncertainly.

  “Really. Julian’s bark is far worse than his bite.”

  “You know this man, sir.”

  Tozer chuckled. “Yes, more’s the pity. I’ve known him all
my life. Detective Sergeant Lesser, may I introduce you to Mr. Julian Tozer, my brother.”

  “Your brother?” Lesser released the fat man and held him at arm’s length, all the while looking him up and down, searching for a hint of familial resemblance, and finding none.

  “Yes,” Tozer said ironically. “The likeness is astonishing, isn’t it?” He turned to his brother. “Calm down, Julian. You’ll give yourself another coronary.”

  Julian Tozer was breathing heavily, and his face was red and puffy. Lesser pulled up the chair and placed it behind Julian’s knees. “I’d sit down, sir, if I were you.”

  Julian Tozer was wheezing but he gave Lesser a filthy look and flopped down into the chair. “Are you here to arrest him?”

  “Not today,” Lesser said.

  “Well, you should. He’s a bloody thief.”

  Lesser raised his eyebrows and turned towards Fred Tozer. “Something I should know about, sir?”

  “Ignore him, Sergeant. Julian’s just upset because our recently departed mother favoured me in her will and left the rest of her money to a donkey sanctuary in Dorset.”

  Lesser shook his head. “None of my concern, sir. If you don’t mind me asking though, what did you have against Tony Turner?”

  “The man was a welsher, Sergeant. He owed me several hundred pounds. I helped him out when his career was on the skids, more fool me.”

  “And he never paid you back?”

  “Not a brass farthing, the bastard, and it’s not as if he didn’t have it.”

  “Serves you bloody well right,” Julian Tozer said to his brother venomously.

  “Be quiet, Julian,” Fred Tozer snapped. “Will there be anything else, Sergeant?”

  “No. I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  “Are you a boxer, Sergeant? You certainly seem to know how to handle yourself, and judging from your face…”

  “A wrestler, sir.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you seemed so at ease backstage in a theatre. Most people who come back here always seem a little bit, well, awestruck for want of a better word, but you seem very comfortable in the environment.”