A Dangerous Life (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 2)

by Len Maynard

  Give me strength, Myra thought, tiring of the agency sales pitch. “Lois Franklin?” She pressed him, trying to bring him back to the reason she was here.

  “A case in point.” Barker suddenly got to his feet and went across to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He pulled open a drawer and started to flick through a collection of files. Seconds later he was back, opening a file out on the desk and leafing through the papers and photographs inside.

  He took out a colour photograph and laid it down for her to see.

  It was a head and shoulders shot of a rather plain girl, with uneven, slightly discoloured teeth, bad skin and lank, mousy hair.

  Barker watched Myra keenly as she studied the picture. “From that.” He reached into the file again and produced another glossy colour shot, this one much more familiar to her; Lois Turner née Franklin as the Cadence Girl, with her shimmering golden hair, perfect features and flawless complexion. “To this.” Barker beamed at her. “You see what I mean. The magic of the Zoom Agency.”

  Myra picked up the photographs and studied them. “They’re the same girl?” She couldn’t hide the incredulity in her voice.

  “It’s hard to credit isn’t it? I must admit that even I was sceptical when she first walked in here, but all credit has to go to Wendy there. She saw something in that girl, something that many people before her had failed to spot.

  Wendy Worthing heard her name mentioned and looked across at them curiously. Barker sensed her cold gaze on them and turned in his seat. “That’s right, Wendy, isn’t it? You spotted the potential in Lois Franklin from the off.”

  Wendy scowled at him. “That’s right. I spotted her, the ungrateful little hussy.”

  Barker smiled at Myra. “I’m afraid Wendy’s still bitter because Lois left us.”

  Wendy came around from behind her desk and stood over them, glaring down at the photographs. “When I think of the time I wasted on that girl, it makes my blood boil. I gave her new hair, new teeth, contact lenses for her eyes. I reshaped her eyebrows, showed how to apply her makeup. I showed her how to stand, to sit and to pose for photographs. I even gave her a new name. Whoever heard of an international model called Bláthnaid?”

  “Bláthnaid? How do you spell that?”

  Wendy spelt it out for her and Myra jotted it down in her notebook.

  “Horrendous, isn’t it?” Wendy seemed to be fully engaged in the conversation now. The woman seemed to have an axe to grind. “It conjures up images of peat bogs and potatoes, and that awful fiddle music. The name had to go. Lois is much more sophisticated. It just oozes glamour.”

  “But Bláthnaid is an Irish name? I thought Lois Franklin was American.”

  Barker was rifling through the file again, found another piece of paper and started reading from it. “Born into a Irish family and grew up in Brooklyn, New York City. She came to us a month after she arrived in this country, looking for modelling work. Though why in God’s name she thought she had any chance in this career is anyone’s guess. But you saw the potential in her, didn’t you, Wendy?”

  “I saw the unformed lump of clay,” Wendy said. “I’ve spent more than twenty years transforming clay into fine porcelain. I saw it as a challenge, nothing more.”

  “Agoraphobia?” Larry Barker said when Myra brought it up. “She’s not still using that old chestnut is she?

  “Do you mean she doesn’t have agoraphobia?” Myra said.

  Wendy smirked. “No, she does have it, like I’ve have two heads and the bubonic plague. That woman collects spurious ailments like other people collect stamps or cigarette cards.”

  “It’s a ploy she’s used before. Most notably when she was trying to get out of her contract with us.”

  Myra glanced round as Cedric Bannister, his phone call now ended, came from behind his desk and came to stand with his partners.

  “But her doctor…” She flipped back the pages of her notebook. “Mark Francombe, confirmed it.”

  Wendy let out an exasperated sigh. “I do hope that the rest of our policemen and women aren’t as naïve as you.”

  “Naïve? What do you mean?”

  “The sudden onset of agoraphobia was a godsend for her. Actually I was rather surprised that she had the intellect to think it up. Obviously, by the very nature of the condition, she couldn’t go to the surgery, so her Dr. Francombe would come to visit, usually when that drip of a husband of hers was away touring or shooting a film.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m still not sure I follow your drift.” Myra used the end of her ballpoint pen to scratch an itch behind her ear. I used too much hair lacquer. The thought drifted into her mind and out again as she tried to keep track of the conversation.

  Wendy Worthing shook her head incredulously “I don’t know what kind of sheltered upbringing you’ve had, Constable Banks, so this may come as a shock to you, but she was sleeping with him.”

  “I’m afraid that Lois uses her sex appeal as a bargaining chip,” Barker added. “I’ve seen her turn the most ruthless marketing director into a drooling mess with a bat of an eyelash. It’s a powerful tool and she has no qualms about using it.”

  “But surely it didn’t do her any good when she had the affair with Tony Turner. They were crucified by the newspapers.”

  “Which all but destroyed his career,” Bannister said.

  “And sent hers skyrocketing,” Wendy added.

  “Zoom indeed.” Larry Barker grinned and pointed to the ceiling again.

  “There was a mad rush to book her.” Bannister had warmed to the subject. He sat back down at his desk, and was now totally immersed in the conversation. “There’s nothing like a sex scandal to add value to a model’s worth.”

  “But Lois wasn’t willing to play the game,” Wendy said bitterly. “After all the money we had invested in her, and all the hours I had put into grooming her, she decided she could go her own way and make more money freelancing, working for the highest bidder, so to speak.”

  “That was when the agoraphobia reared its ugly, and entirely fictitious, head again,” Bannister said. “Only this time she used it to hamper the contract negotiations, missing meetings, that sort of thing. Not that her solicitor needed any help. He was running rings around my man, finding obscure loopholes in the contract that had totally eluded us. Sometimes it helps when your lawyer is your brother.”

  “Her brother?”

  “Yes, and very good he was too. In fact, if he hadn’t had a vested interest in his sister’s career, I would have sacked my man and hired him myself.”

  Myra was scribbling down notes in her ersatz shorthand. I really need to take a Pitman’s course, she thought. “And you think her marriage to Tony Turner was a sham?”

  “I think it was about as genuine as everything else to do with Lois Turner,” Wendy said. “I was there when they first met at a dinner party given by Noël Coward at the Savoy Hotel, and she had Turner eating out of her hand by end of the aperitifs. It was pitiful to watch.”

  “Like a lamb to the slaughter,” Barker said.

  “Can you give me the name of her solicitor?” Myra said, her pen poised over the page of her notebook.

  “Docherty,” Bannister said. “Simon Docherty.”

  “But you said he was her brother.”

  “And so he is.” Wendy perched on the edge of Barker’s desk. “I changed her name to Lois Franklin from the unappealing and very unmarketable Bláthnaid Docherty. As I said, peat bogs and fiddle music.”

  27 - TUESDAY

  The public bar of the Carpenters was heaving for a Tuesday lunchtime. All the tables were occupied and there was queue at the bar. Three barmen were rushing backwards and forwards behind the long oak counter, dispensing trays of drinks, taking pound notes from customers and stowing them away in a cash register that seemed to be constantly ringing up sales. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the malty aroma of beer, and the general hubbub of conversation was punctuated with the occasional eruption of cheering.
r />   Jack looked about him critically. The idea of having anything approaching a private conversation here was slim. “Are you sure he said to meet in here?”

  Eddie Fuller shrugged, his eyebrows raised. “That’s what he said.”

  Seconds later Charlie Somers was tugging at Fuller’s elbow. “Sorry. Darts match. I forgot. Come through to the saloon bar.”

  Fuller attracted Jack’s attention and they moved through the frosted-glass door to the oasis of peace that was the saloon bar.

  “Find a table and I’ll get them in.” Somers walked up to the bar. “Half of bitter, Eddie? And you, Jack?”

  “Orange squash. I’m driving.”

  They sat in a booth to one side of the bar and Somers put the tray of drinks down on the table between them. He sat down himself and took his pint of Guinness from the tray, pulled out his pipe and lit it with a match. Puffing the aromatic smoke, he finally got the pipe alight, shook his hand and dropped the spent match into the china ashtray that occupied a space in the centre of the table.

  “So why the urgent visit to my home turf? Has something come up?”

  “A couple of things.” Jack leaned forward and pushed the ashtray to one side, leaving himself space to lay down the photographs he’d taken from his pocket. “I’d like you to take a look at these.”

  Somers glanced down at them. “Why are you showing me these?” He pointed to the boxing photograph. “That’s the one I gave you.”

  “Bear with me.” Jack took out the photograph of the O’Brien brothers and laid it down next to the others. “Recognise them?”

  A slow smile spread over Somers face. “Fergus and Conner O’Brien. You don’t think those two are caught up in all this, do you?”

  “Very much so, Charlie. In fact I believe they’re a large part of the reason for all this. Tell me what you know about them.”

  “Probably about as much as you do, if you saw the memo Scotland Yard sent round. Irish Americans, and not the type whose only connection to the mother country is to get pissed up every St Patrick’s day and to sing a verse or two of Danny Boy. The O’Brien family hail from County Cork. When they were scrabbling around Ireland’s illicit underbelly, they sent the crime rates soaring. The old man, Padraig, packed up the entire family and emigrated to the United States before the Garda could pull them in. If this photo was taken in London it would appear that the Yard were right. They did come over here.” Somers leaned back in his chair and sucked on his pipe. “You’re awfully quiet, Eddie. Cat got your tongue?”

  Fuller shook his head. “I’m just wondering where all this is leading.” He turned to Jack. “Guv?”

  “All in good time, Eddie,” Jack said and took a mouthful of orange squash. He said to Somers, “Tell me, when did Thomas Usher have his stroke?”

  “About six months after that boxing match at the York Hall. The fifth of December 1956. An early, or some would say, very belated Christmas present.”

  “Interesting,” Jack said. “According to Benny Talbot’s filing system, this photograph…” He pointed to the shot of Lois Turner leaving The Purple Flamingo draped on Usher’s arm. “This photograph was taken in 1957.”

  “Then Usher looks remarkably healthy for a man recovering from a stroke,” Fuller said.

  “I’d agree with you, Eddie. But that’s not Thomas Usher.”

  Fuller picked up the print and stared at it for a long moment. “Then if it’s not him, it must be…”

  “Tony Turner,” Somers said. “Well I’ll be… Here, let me look at that.”

  Fuller slid the photograph across the table. He, like Fuller, stared at it long and hard. “Stone me,” he said. “Do you think you could be right? It certainly looks like Usher.”

  “I am right.” Jack pointed out the differences in the two men that his daughter had spotted yesterday.

  “It still doesn’t make a lot of sense, Jack. It’s common knowledge that Usher had a stroke and is pretty much gaga these days. What would be the point of impersonating him when everyone knows the truth?”

  “Usher’s stroke must have been very inconvenient for the higher ups running the firm, a power vacuum, and yet nobody stepped up to take his place. Did you ever ask yourself why?”

  “I wondered but, as I told Eddie, my bosses were just relieved that Usher was out of their hair.”

  “Only he wasn’t. See, there he is leaving the night club.” Jack pointed to the photo.

  “But it’s not him,” Fuller said.

  “Yes, but the photo had us fooled. Turner’s impersonation may have hoodwinked others into believing that Usher was still active; still a face. Usher’s stroke was always regarded as a convenience. You thought so yourself, Charlie. A way to stop the investigation into his criminal activities and, let’s be honest, it worked. The Met effectively wrote him off as a threat.”

  “Only after the stroke was confirmed.”

  “But what if the word was spread among the criminal fraternity that it had been a ruse all along and Usher was well and still running things in the South, and to confirm it Tommy Usher would be seen at his night club, fit and healthy. On the strength of his reputation alone, no one with any regard for their safety is going to question it. Quite the reverse in fact. He would be seen as a criminal mastermind, putting one over on Scotland Yard. He’d be hailed as a hero.”

  “Word would have reached the Yard if that were the case,” Somers said.

  “You mean Scotland Yard has a string of informers ready to risk life and limb by telling you that Thomas Usher was still in charge and that the stroke was just one huge deception?”

  “Fair point, I suppose.” Somers sipped at his Guinness. “So who do you think is running the show now?”

  “I have my suspicions,” Jack said.

  “Do you want to share them?”

  Jack laid the photograph of Simon Docherty in conversation with Isaac Gold down on the table.

  Somers stared at it.

  “Gold told Eddie and me that Docherty was just asking him for the time, but I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe now. I think they’re working together.”

  “Which means Albert Klein would be running London, North and South.”

  “Yes, but covertly, along with Simon Docherty who has been Usher’s right-hand man for a few years now. There are factions in south London who would never take orders from an American lawyer and a North London Jew. It would go too much against the grain. But if those instructions were thought to be coming from Usher himself, no one is going to complain or make waves.”

  “So Tony Turner dressed and made up to look like Tommy Usher appears every so often, just too make it seem that the boss still around?” Somers scratched his head. “It’s a bit of a stretch, Jack.”

  “Not when you consider how high the stakes are, especially when you bring the O’Brien family into the equation.”

  Fuller drained his glass. “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “Usher’s main objection to joining forces with Albert Klein was Klein’s drug business. It was the one criminal activity he would have no truck with after the death of his brother. Suddenly the O’Brien family arrive on the scene, offering untold riches if they can bring London into their drug market, and Klein can’t capitalise on the opportunity because he’d never get Usher to guarantee the supply line from the coast into London and the rest of the UK. The O’Briens would never risk exposing themselves in a venture that was only fifty per cent certain. So for Klein, Usher’s stroke was both a godsend and a curse. On one hand Usher, the fly in the ointment, has been removed. On the other, the O’Briens would never be persuaded to commit to anything without dealing directly with both Klein and Usher. So they meet at Usher’s nightclub, with Turner playing the role of mein host, the deal is done and all parties get what they want.” Jack sat back in his seat, waiting for a reaction. “Well? What do you think?”

  Somers and Fuller exchanged looks, and Somers shook his head. “Sorry, Jack. I’m not buying it. Obviously you�
�ve put a lot of thought into your theory, but too far-fetched. This is the London underworld we’re dealing with here, and you’re presenting us with a scenario of Machiavellian proportions. I doubt that any of the participants in your story have the intelligence to come up with such a scheme.”

  “And it still doesn’t explain why Tony Turner ended up tortured and nailed to a tree in the middle of Letchworth,” Fuller said.

  “Agreed, Eddie, it doesn’t explain that, but I must disagree with you, Charlie. If, as we suspect, it is Simon Docherty running the show in the South just remember, he’s a trained lawyer, and his devious legal mind would be more than capable of thinking this thing up, and Albert Klein is no slouch in the intelligence department either. You don’t go from being a snotty kid from Ponders End to being the head of North London’s top criminal firm without having something special about you.”

  Somers drained his glass. “If you can find some evidence to support your crazy idea I’d be willing to suspend my disbelief, take it to my superiors and get them to restart the investigations, but all this Shakespearian drama stuff will get me laughed out of the chief constable’s office and wreck what little reputation and credibility I have left. Sorry, Jack, but I can’t help you on this.”

  “Ah, well,” Jack said, draining the last of his orange squash. “It was worth a try.”

  “Shall I get them in again?”

  Jack shook his head. “Not now, Charlie. We have to be going. Places to go, people to see.”

  “Fair enough.” Somers got to his feet. “I’ll leave you with one thought though. You mentioned the O’Brien brothers. The most infamous incident involving them that the New York police could never get a result on, was that of Joey the Fish, one of the bookies on the O’Briens’ payroll. Joey swindled the brothers out of thousands of dollars and met an untimely end under the wheels of a Greyhound bus. The NYPD could never prove that it was anything other than an accident, but everyone knew that the O’Briens were just exacting their revenge. I might get in touch with Roy Armitage who led the investigation into Benny Talbot’s death. He might be interested to know that not only were the brothers in the Tottenham Court Road area around that time, but Benny Talbot snapped them coming out of Tommy Usher’s club, and I doubt they were much pleased by that. Who knows, it might lead somewhere.”