Dressed to Kill

by Patricia Hall

  His main objective now was to talk to the club’s owner and star trumpeter Stan Weston, a legend, he was told, amongst traditional jazz musicians who had so far been mysteriously absent from the club since the girl’s body had been found. No one, it seemed, amongst the original investigating officers, had seen fit to attempt to track him down. But he was advertised as top of the bill with Muddy Abraham tonight and Barnard was determined to talk to him before the show began. He did not see Weston arrive but when the tall, dark, easily recognizable figure of Muddy Abraham turned into the alley and then in the direction of the back entrance Barnard reckoned it was time to move.

  Inside the dimly lit club early arrivals had already taken the tables nearest the small stage, drinks set up, and recorded music was playing over the speakers. Barnard made his way to the door at the side of the stage and pushed it open. He could see no one in the cluttered space beyond but he could hear raised voices and when he pushed open the next door he found Abraham and a tall white man in a tweed three-piece suit, bow tie and a luxuriant beard and head of hair in a heated discussion. Both stopped dead when they saw him.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the bearded man demanded.

  ‘DS Harry Barnard,’ Barnard said, flashing his warrant card in his direction. ‘Looking for Stan Weston. Been looking for him for several days as it goes.’

  ‘He’s the cop I been telling you about,’ Abraham said, pushing his fedora to the back of his head. ‘He’s looking for anyone who knew that poor kid they found out back.’

  ‘She was nothing to do with my club,’ Weston said angrily. ‘This is a music joint and I’m particular about who – or what – I let in.’ He flashed a glance at Abraham as he spoke and Barnard guessed that he was not always successful in enforcing his rules with the American.

  ‘But you know there are tarts around here. Can you be sure no one here was making use of her services?’ Barnard said bluntly.

  ‘Not on these premises, Sergeant,’ Weston said. ‘In the back yard, who knows? You know as well as I do that some people aren’t particular what they do where. When we close I’ve seen girls outside, propositioning my clients. It’s not something your people seem to bother about much. It’s a thriving trade. You’d be better making inquiries amongst some of the other girls on the street.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got that in mind,’ Barnard said, nettled by Weston’s tone. He could not slot him easily into the usual run of Soho club owners. His style of dress looked more suitable for a country squire than a jazz musician and his accent did not belong to London. And he was well aware that the reason he had never come across him before was that the Jazz Cellar was, as far as he knew, clean.

  ‘You don’t get any approaches from the Maltese?’ he asked.

  Weston scowled. ‘You know how these things work, Sergeant, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘I pay for security. Who doesn’t round here? You probably know exactly who I pay. And so far I’ve found the service very satisfactory. And now, if you’ve no more questions, I have a show to put on. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘I do have one more question for Mr Abraham, as it goes.’

  The American gave him a lopsided smile. ‘Only one?’

  ‘Are you still an American citizen, Mr Abraham? Or have you taken out naturalization papers?’

  ‘Sure,’ Muddy Abraham said easily, though Barnard was not sure he believed him. ‘I’m in the process. I can’t imagine, when you see those southern rednecks blowing up li’l black girls in Sunday school, why I never got round to it before. Typical lazy nigger, I guess.’ He gave Barnard a faint smile and a shrug. ‘Make what you can of that,’ he said wearily and walked determinedly out of the room.

  ‘This isn’t New Orleans, Sergeant,’ Weston said angrily. ‘That is a good man. And a bloody fine musician.’

  ‘He may well be, Mr Weston,’ Barnard said. ‘But it’s not necessarily going to be easy for him to prove he’s an innocent man. We may not be in Alabama but there’s plenty of people here who don’t like blacks.’

  Tatiana Broughton-Clarke swept into the Blue Lagoon, where Kate had arranged to meet her when she called the studio, and turned every head in the room, which Kate accepted wryly was precisely the intention. She was wearing a minute skirt under a cape of some soft black leather, and above knee-high red patent boots, all topped off with a Russian-style hat in black fur.

  ‘Darlink,’ she greeted Kate with an unexpected kiss on each cheek. ‘I’m so glad you could make it. And so glad your boss is amenable. Andrei is such a pig when it comes to helping me. He doesn’t think I’m being serious, you know. He thinks – what was it he called me? – a play girl. He’s jealous of course. Jealous of me and of Roddy.’

  ‘Roddy?’ Kate asked, bemused.

  ‘Roddy. My husband,’ Tatiana said airily. ‘He’s paying the rent for my little studio. I can’t work at home. We’re right out in the country, in the Chilterns. You know the Chilterns? Lots of hills and trees and narrow roads. Lots of big houses, old and not so old.’ Kate shook her head and Tatiana shrugged and slipped out of her cape, revealing a cerise silk shift-like shirt, sleeveless and cut low and attracting some startled glances from nearby tables. ‘I can do some of the initial planning and cutting out there in the sticks, but for most of it I just have to be in the West End – suppliers, clients, models, everyone and everything, you know. Andrei understands that too, of course. He just likes to be as difficult as possible.’

  ‘Why do you live out there if it’s so inconvenient?’ Kate asked.

  Tatiana raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. ‘It’s his ancestral home, darlink. You don’t sell your ancestral home unless you’re totally bankrupt and we’re not that quite yet. Six hundred years his family has been there, he says. I sympathize. My family was the same once, before the Bolsheviks. In fact the whole object of my little enterprise is to mend the hole in the roof. The place was taken over by the army in the war and rumour has it that the young officers played hockey in the salon and ran races down the grand staircase on tin trays. Anyway, one way or another, the place suffered. So now we’re looking for any way we can to make a bit of money. Roddy thought we could open the house up to the public, offer tours and cream teas, roundabouts for the kiddies, but his mama stamped on that idea pretty firmly. So far we’ve only hosted private parties and made a loss. So I’ve decided I’d better do my bit. So far the people who’ve seen my work think it’s cutting edge. So now we have to prove it.’

  Kate glanced at Tatiana’s outfit and smiled. ‘It’s certainly unusual,’ she said. ‘I’ve not seen Andrei snapping anything quite so way-out.’

  ‘Good,’ Tatiana said. ‘When can you come round to my studio to plan a shoot?’

  FOUR

  Harry Barnard knew better than to interrupt the street girls when they were working. He would make himself very unpopular with the women themselves and with the shadowy men of the Maltese mafia who mainly controlled them. Tracking down the friends and acquaintances of the murdered girl would have to wait until tomorrow. He drove home to his Highgate flat thoughtfully and unusually early, hung his leather coat up carefully in the hall cupboard and poured himself a large malt whisky from a carefully chosen selection in the teak cocktail cabinet in his living room. He put a brand new 78 on his radiogram, a new band recommended by one of his CID colleagues, unusual in being still unattached and with money to spend. Steve reckoned that the Rolling Stones were likely to be next year’s big thing, better than the Beatles maybe, certainly different. Barnard was not that impressed by the number, I wanna be your man, which was in any case penned by Lennon and McCartney. Steve, he reckoned, was way off beam with this lot. They wouldn’t survive long.

  He sat in his favourite Heals’ spinning bucket chair, sipping his drink and contemplating his own love life. His flat, as a project, was pretty well complete and occasionally he fantasized about having someone to share it with. But surprisingly for a man who prided himself on the ease with which he attracted women, his list of availab
le candidates was not that long. Working in Soho as he did, sex was readily available. For a frisson of danger there was Shirley Bettany, snug in her luxurious Hampstead home and never likely to contemplate abandoning all that, even if he were fool enough to try to tempt her and risk the wrath of her husband Fred and his boss Ray Robertson. Then, as Ray himself had reminded him, there was Kate. Kate O’Donnell, beautiful certainly, passionate quite possibly with the right encouragement, but with an accent as thick as the waters of the River Mersey and an unaccountable habit of landing herself in predicaments that were dangerous and unpredictable and had involved him in situations twice already that had threatened to put his own career on the line.

  Impulsively he pushed his chair to the telephone on a side table and dialled the number of Kate’s new phone, which she had written down for him when he had last bumped into her briefly in Greek Street on her way to Andrei Lubin’s studio. Kate answered herself and sounded slightly surprised to hear his voice.

  ‘How’s it going, la?’ she asked. ‘Have you found your murderer yet?’

  ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ he muttered, disconcerted. ‘We don’t even know who she is yet.’

  ‘Seems to me there’s a lot of lost girls in Soho. Some of them seem to be working as models – all expecting to be the next Jean Shrimpton I expect – but I bet a lot of them get chewed up and thrown away. I met one today who’s only fifteen and pregnant. Is that legal?’

  ‘Working is legal. She doesn’t have to be in school. But having sex isn’t.’

  ‘And do you bizzies do anything about that?’ Kate came back quickly.

  ‘Jesus, Kate, controlling the sex trade’s a tall order, let alone girls who may be sleeping with their boyfriends.’

  ‘Pity,’ she said.

  ‘I called to ask if you fancied a meal tomorrow night,’ Barnard said, wondering already if the invitation was not a mistake. But he need not have worried. Kate turned him down flat.

  ‘Can’t do that,’ she said. ‘We’re having a little Scouse night out tomorrow, me and Tess and some old mates from home.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’ Barnard asked, trying to inject some friendly enthusiasm into his voice.

  ‘We thought we might go to this Jazz Cellar place. Something new. My ex-boyfriend thinks jazz might be the next big thing, so he’s organized us a table.’

  Barnard groaned silently. ‘I doubt it,’ Barnard said. ‘It’s been going to be the next big thing since about 1920. Anyway, I wouldn’t recommend it right now.’

  ‘Why? Are you lot going to close it down?’

  ‘Not immediately,’ Barnard said grimly. ‘But it may not be long, since they found this girl’s body suspiciously close to their back door, and anyway my DCI is sure it’s a sink of iniquity, cannabis on tap.’

  ‘We’d better go while we can, then,’ Kate said lightly. ‘It is supposed to be famous.’

  ‘Famous, or notorious, take your pick,’ Barnard said. ‘Anyway I can’t stop you, can I. Just take care. And don’t accept drugs if they’re offered, right? I’ll see you around.’ He hung up angrily. He was wasting his time there, he thought, and poured himself another Scotch. She was far too young for him anyway, and he couldn’t live with that Scouse accent, which did not seem to be softening at all under the influence of southerners. The few days she had stayed with him when she was burned out of her flat in Notting Hill was a one off and that looked like the end of it.

  The next day Harry Barnard was on Evie Smith’s threshold as early as he dared – which was not much before noon. There had been a time when Evie’s charms lured him into pressing this particular doorbell – one of six all with women’s names alongside on the door with peeling red paint – more often than was probably wise, even though such relationships were regarded as one of the perks of the job in the police canteen. But Evie’s looks were fading and with them the attraction. He had not seen her for a couple of months and did not know how welcome he would be.

  She came to the door in silky housecoat with no make-up and a half-smoked cigarette in her hand. She waved him in without saying anything and as she let him into her room, which was better lit than the hallway. Barnard realized that she was looking far worse than he had seen her before. Her face was distinctly lined around the eyes and mouth, her hair was lank and dark at the roots, and as she sat in the sagging armchair crammed into the small space beside the double bed she began to cough.

  ‘You look rough,’ he said. ‘How bad is that cough?’

  ‘It comes and goes,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the bedside table and picked up a cup of something standing beside it.

  ‘Have you seen a doc?’

  ‘It’ll get better when we get some warmer weather,’ she said. ‘I’m as tough as old boots really. Always have been. You don’t survive long in this game if you’re not. Anyway, what can I do for you? You haven’t favoured me with a visit for a long time.’

  ‘Been busy,’ Barnard said.

  ‘New girlfriend more like,’ Evie said. ‘It’s about time you settled down, Flash.’ She gave him a smile that reminded him of why he had once found her so attractive but he merely shook his head at her suggestion.

  ‘I really came round to pick your brains, Evie. You know a young girl was found dead at the back of the Jazz Cellar the other day. General impression is that she was on the game but no one seems to know her name or where she came from. She’s only a kid.’

  ‘I heard,’ Evie said before dissolving in a fit of coughing again.

  Barnard waited until the fit had subsided. ‘See a doc,’ he said, as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the photograph of Jenny and handed it to Evie. ‘This is her.’

  Evie gazed at the picture for a long time before she spoke and Barnard was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I wondered if it was her. She’s been around for a couple of months at most. ‘I came across her one night up in Soho Square, sheltering with a couple of winos. She said she’d been with a couple of blokes and they’d ended up hitting her and refusing to pay. They drove off in a car. I was on my way home and I brought her back, put her to bed, I slept in the chair. But she was ready for off as soon as it was light. She didn’t tell me much. Said she was called Jenny, she came from the East End, had come up west to work as a model, but that didn’t work out and she ended up on the streets.’

  ‘No second name?’

  ‘No. She seemed very worried about saying too much.’

  ‘No hint as to whereabouts in the East End? There’s a lot of it,’ Barnard said. ‘No idea why she didn’t simply go home when the modelling failed?’

  ‘Clapton, I think she said. She talked a bit about her school, though she didn’t say what it was called. She hated it, she said. Played hookey a lot of the time. Spent more and more time in the West End when she could find the money for the bus fares, looking for jobs in the fashion business. She said she knew other girls who had come up here and found work as models.’

  ‘Well, that gives me a lead at least. I’ll call the local nick and see if she’s been reported missing for a start. If not I could try the photograph at the local schools. Was it a grammar school? A girls’ school? Any idea?’

  ‘She only talked about girls,’ Evie said before collapsing into another paroxysm of coughing.

  Barnard sighed. ‘You really should have that cough seen to,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Evie. And look after yourself, for God’s sake. If you go on like that how are you going to be able to work?’

  Evie nodded bleakly and lit another cigarette before walking slowly with him to the front door. ‘Find the bastard who killed her,’ she said hoarsely. ‘None of us are safe, are we, if you don’t.’

  Barnard put his head round the door of the Jazz Cellar as he strolled back to the nick, but there was no one inside except a couple of cleaners wiping tables and a stale smell including an undertone of marijuana which he knew would be enough to spark DCI Jackson into a raid.
He shrugged. There was nothing much he could do to prevent that. He just hoped that Kate O’Donnell was not there when the uniformed plods stormed in.

  Back at the nick he put in a call to the nick in Hackney to inquire about missing persons. But according to the WPC who looked at the records for him without much enthusiasm there was nothing there: plenty of teenagers leaving home but no Jenny or Jennifer who fitted his description.

  ‘They bugger off all the time,’ she said. ‘The bright lights seem attractive, God knows why. Sometimes their parents report them missing, sometimes they don’t. The children’s homes generally let us know if they abscond. But if they’re sixteen or thereabouts, working age, age of consent, all that, and no indication of foul play, we haven’t got the resources to follow up. Some come back, some don’t, some are never seen again. You could try the Sally Army. They try to trace a few.’

  ‘I need this girl’s name,’ Barnard said with an edge to his voice. ‘This is a murder case. She probably went to a girls’ school near you. Clapton is the best guess. What have you got?’

  ‘A girls’ grammar and a girls’ secondary in Clapton,’ the WPC said. ‘I’ll get the addresses for you.’

  It took Barnard a good half hour to grind out east to an area way beyond where he had been raised in the tightly packed streets of Whitechapel until the land began to drop away into a landscape of marshes and reservoirs and derelict sites left to fester since the war. Hackney, which contained Clapton, was the last of the boroughs he found recognizable as real East End and was where he found the secondary school that he thought Jenny might have attended. An elderly building, much extended over the years, was crammed into a mainly residential road with, as far as he could see, shockingly little outdoor space for the crowds of neatly uniformed girls who were pouring out of the doors at the end of the school afternoon. Asking directions three or four times he found reception and asked to see the head teacher.