The Complete Dangerous Davies

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘We hit the jackpot then, Frank,’ mentioned Davies.

  ‘Forgot the date of the wife’s birthday,’ confessed the sergeant, shaking his head morosely over the report book on the counter. ‘Always fill in everybody’s birthdays for the numbers, Dangerous. I put a cross against seventeen, and it turns out the wife’s is the nineteenth. Typical of her. That would have been another draw. Twenty-five thousand quid.’

  A furtive woman came in from the street and began to hover.

  ‘Any rewards?’ she inquired plaintively. ‘Any rewards going this week?’

  The sergeant regarded her patiently. ‘Not that I’ve heard of, Minnie,’ he said. He turned to Davies. ‘You haven’t, have you, Dangerous?’ Davies pretended to think.

  ‘In short supply these days, rewards,’ he said, shaking his head like a shopkeeper. The woman shuffled towards the door and went out silently sideways. Davies said: ‘What about poor old Lofty, Frank.’

  ‘Never harmed a fly, Lofty,’ mused the sergeant.

  Davies began studying the notices on the police station board. ‘Wanted for Terrorism.’ ‘Wanted for Armed Robbery.’ ‘Treatment for AIDS.’ ‘Do You Recognize This Weapon?’ It was a wicked world.

  ‘I can never understand these Identikit pictures,’ he sniffed, studying the man wanted for armed robbery. ‘This bloke’s got three different chins.’ He felt his own scarred chin. ‘When’s the inquest on Lofty?’ he asked.

  ‘This morning,’ said the sergeant. ‘PC Westerman’s just gone up there.’

  ‘I might look in,’ said Davies, glancing down at his watch. He made for the door. A wet-cheeked woman and an old man hugging his leg were coming up the steps as he went out. He wished them good morning and went towards the car compound.

  For years he had been the possessor of a seedy but – on account of its antiquity – valuable Lagonda tourer which also served as a home for his dog, but necessity had ordered its sale. He had replaced it with a venerable Vauxhall Vanguard. It was bulky and plum-coloured with white wheels, obtained at a police auction of misappropriated goods. Kitty, his Yaklike dog, was waiting for him now in the ragged rear seat as he crossed to the vehicle.

  Girls in the West Indian hair salon (Pierre of Brent) had recently arranged his tangled hair into dreadlocks. Kitty, pleased with the attention, had sat quietly and ringlets now hung from his large face, his eyes peering between the spiralled strands like those of a prisoner behind bars.

  As Davies got into the car, the dog barked provocatively. He frequently had difficulty in accepting him as his master.

  He edged the bulbous vehicle into the traffic. It was ten minutes to the Coroner’s court, a drive through coarse streets: the Rawalpindi Supermarket, The Great Wall Chinese Takeaway, the Halal Butcher, Barbados Groceries, The Jewel in the Crown Curry Centre, and the older-established premises of Smith, Jones, Murphy, the Credit Outfitters and the Queen Victoria off-licence.

  The Coroner’s court was in a new building which seemed to Davies unnecessarily bright for a place in daily association with tragedy. Some upset people had just come out from an inquest and a man was ineffectually trying to comfort another man who was weeping clumsily into thick hands as he stumbled towards the exit. The first man produced a yellow scarf and gave it to his friend to hold to his eyes. The weeper rubbed at his tears and then blew his nose on it. The first man seemed a little shocked and held out his hand for his scarf.

  Davies, soberly observing the pair, moved aside to let them pass. The guiding man whispered: ‘His mum took an overdose.’ He ran his finger across his throat.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ muttered Davies, as if there were some way he might have prevented it. In one ordinary morning there was a lot of small sorrow around. He pushed open the door of the court. The Coroner, Mr Noël Benskin, was perched like an auctioneer on a raised dais at the far end of the neon-lit room, his pen scratching audibly. The next case was proceeding, Evidence had just been given by a doctor who was now descending with pursed lips from the witness stand. A drained woman sat on a front bench watching him dumbly as if she could bear to care no longer. The Coroner looked up from his deathly ledger and said in his low official voice: ‘You may go now. You may make the arrangements for the funeral.’ The woman said: ‘I don’t know how to.’ She waited, then added: ‘Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure the doctor will help you,’ intoned the Coroner, practically. ‘He knows the funeral people.’

  ‘I’ve never had to do it before,’ she mumbled, half to the official and half to the doctor who was looking none too pleased. She rose and the Coroner’s officer took her arm. Davies sat thoughtfully in the rearmost of the benches. Now the court was vacant except for Benskin, himself, and the officer who was at the distant door. The Coroner looked up at the emptied court as if wondering if he had offended everybody. His rimless spectacles fixed Davies, who smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Ah, Detective Constable Davies. How are the injuries?’

  ‘Getting better by the minute, sir, thank you,’ answered Davies, half standing.

  ‘Good, good. Er … Why are you here? Are you interested in the next case? Let me see …’ He examined his ledger. ‘Brock, Wilfred Henry. Found drowned.’

  Uncertainly again, Davies rose. ‘Sort of, sir I … just knew him.’

  ‘Ah,’ breathed the Coroner wisely. ‘Known to the police, was he?’

  Hurriedly protecting the name of a dead man, Davies corrected him. ‘No … not like that, sir. He didn’t have a record. He was just … known.’

  Benskin looked as if he did not understand why a policeman should know of somebody who was not, in legal terms, known. There was a bellow from the rear of the room, the traditional and unreasonably startling shout of his officer calling those who had some interest in the passing of Wilfred Henry Brock to attend the court forthwith.

  Davies was wearing his overcoat. He always changed into that and his long-john underwear when the clocks were altered in the autumn. It was one of his few concessions to regularity. Now he looked around the edge of his thick collar, frayed by London winters, and saw the few people entering the court like the cast of a small play. They were led by Police Constable Westerman, who was subject to massive nosebleeds. He had once had to borrow a set of keys (to put down his back) from a man arrested on suspicion of stealing a car with the same keys. Behind him came an irritated-looking fat man whom Davies recognised as Charlie Copley, the warden of the North-West London Refuge for Men, and behind Charlie a fine-looking black girl whom Davies had never seen before. She was tall and relaxed. Her heavy red coat hung about her ankles. She took a seat at the far end of the same bench, never glancing his way but watching the Coroner as she sat down. Davies could see her left eye, deep and dish-shaped, like the eye of an ancient African carving. He kept glancing at her, hoping she would even briefly turn his way, but she kept her face firmly forward. Her only action was to reach down to a briefcase at her feet from which she extracted some papers – a mundane movement which, however, sent a cloud of luxuriant hair toppling forward. Davies swallowed guiltily.

  Police Constable Westerman, apprehensively sniffing, climbed to the witness stand. ‘I was on duty,’ he recited, peering into his notebook as if trying to recall if he was, ‘on October 7th, sir, when I received information that what appeared to be a person was floating in the Grand Union at Pikes Lane.’

  ‘A person?’ queried the Coroner pedantically.

  ‘A body, as it turned out, sir. In the canal.’

  Mr Benskin regarded him as he might someone who could be holding back information. The officer’s dubious eyes rose from the notebook. ‘Please continue,’ muttered the official.

  ‘I went at once to Pikes Lane where two boys were prodding a floating object with some sticks, sir. I told them to desist and with some assistance took the body from the water. It was apparent to me that the man was dead and there was no point in trying any resuscitation et cetera, sir.’

  ‘Was it cold?’ inquired the Coroner.
/>   ‘Cold, sir? The body or the water, sir?’ asked the witness timidly.

  ‘The night, constable, the night.’

  ‘On the chilly side, sir.’

  The next witness was Charlie Copley, who described himself as the warden of the North-West London Refuge for Men. He agreed that he had gone to the mortuary and identified the body of Wilfred Henry Brock. He sounded neither sorry nor surprised.

  ‘He was a … habitué …?’ Benskin thought about this. ‘A frequenter of the hostel, was he?’ The rimless glasses fixed the witness.

  ‘A client, sir,’ said Copley. ‘Regular for years. He used to wander around with an old pram. Everybody knew him.’ It was his turn to regard the Coroner. ‘Nearly everybody,’ he amended. ‘Harmless sort of old man. In his seventies, or thereabouts.’ He glanced at Police Constable Westerman for confirmation. The policeman began searching his notebook.

  ‘Have you been able to trace relatives?’ asked the Coroner, immediately answering the question himself: ‘I don’t suppose you have or they would be here today, wouldn’t they? They usually turn up out of the blue at times like these.’

  ‘They do, sir,’ nodded the warden. ‘To see if there is anything worth having.’

  Benskin raised his eyebrows above his glasses. ‘Did you know any reason why he should take his own life?’

  ‘Not as I know of, sir. He seemed all right to me. But I have fifty others to think about. It’s a popular place, the hostel.’

  Benskin sniffed. ‘Yes, I imagine. Call the next witness.’

  From the rear of the room sounded a concise tread. Dr Frederick Spilton, the pathologist, took the stand. He was pale and wore tight, sharp suits. Death, he said unmysteriously, was due to drowning. He then stepped down, asked if he might be released and left the court. The handsome black girl stirred in her seat.

  ‘Miss Jemima Duval,’ said the Coroner’s officer. He nodded at the piece of paper in his hand, looked up and blushed all over his naked head as he met her eyes. Mr Benskin took off and cleaned his glasses, and then replaced them as she went to the witness stand. She turned, and for the first time Davies saw her complete face, the cheekbones, the eyes, the full hair, the soft dark skin, the missing tooth. Every eye in the room was now fixed on the missing tooth, absent in the middle of her otherwise perfect set. ‘God help me,’ muttered Davies.

  Mr Benskin, with a slight squeak, asked her to repeat her name.

  ‘Jemima Duval,’ the lady replied quietly. ‘I am a social worker.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ nodded the Coroner. ‘And what do you know of this sad case?’

  She opened a folder and remarked: ‘I visit the men’s hostel quite regularly.’

  ‘You do?’ Mr Benskin looked as if he might go to live there himself. ‘Regularly?’

  ‘Yes, regularly.’

  ‘I suppose men talk much better with a lady.’

  ‘So they tell me, sir.’

  ‘And you knew the deceased. What can you tell us about him?’

  ‘He was well liked, sir. They called him Lofty. He was one of those people who just chose to live like that, in the simplest possible way, with little responsibility. He was eccentric. He wandered about talking to himself, picking up pieces of paper at random, but never caused trouble, as far as I could ascertain, and he paid for his keep without any bother. He seemed to me to be quite happy. There was no distress.’

  ‘Er … when you visited him, what did he talk about?’

  ‘Oh, the usual things. How he was keeping, if he needed any help. He did not remember anything about his past. Apparently he had been in the War but he couldn’t recall anything about that either. He was just a poor, sad old man.’

  ‘And you’ve been unable to trace any relatives, anyone who knows him outside this immediate area.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir. He had very few possessions, not many papers, and I was unable to contact anyone who would … claim him, sir.’

  The Coroner was studying her missing tooth again. He adjusted his glasses quickly, the action of someone pulling themselves together, and asked: ‘Is there any reason known to you why he should have taken his own life?’

  ‘None at all, sir. He seemed to me to be a very contented old man.’

  Mr Benskin became thoughtful. ‘He was a familiar figure in this locality, wheeling an old perambulator, as I understand. What happened to the pram?’

  Davies nodded approvingly. The black girl said: ‘It has not been found, sir. It’s presumed to have gone into the canal with him.’

  ‘Would he have taken it with him …? I mean, would he have plunged into the canal with the pram if he was intent on suicide?’ The Coroner mused for a moment and once more answered his own question: ‘I suppose he might. On the other hand, if he had fallen into the canal by accident, he is just as likely to have pushed the perambulator in ahead of him.’ He looked up at the black girl again. ‘How were his drinking habits?’ he asked.

  ‘He didn’t have any, as far as I know,’ she replied. ‘He was teetotal. That’s very rare in that sort of person, people without home or family. Very rare, sir.’

  Davies followed her from the court after the open verdict and caught up with her on the pavement. ‘Oh … Miss Duval … I’m Detective Constable Davies …’

  Unhurriedly she turned and took him in. He hoped she would not smile because he knew he would not be able to avoid staring. She did and he stared. Until he had seen that missing tooth he had never realised that something could be so potent, even beautiful, by its absence. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said. ‘You’re called Dangerous.’

  He was abashed. ‘Just a nickname,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who started it.’ Her smile was reasonable. Encouraged, he said: ‘It’s just opening time. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘The Dog and Shovel,’ she nodded.

  His heart had begun to bang blatantly inside his overcoat. He fell in beside her and they walked at a brisk pace along the pavement. She was only an inch below his height, but quite a lot of it was her hair. ‘Poor old Lofty,’ he said conversationally. ‘Never did a soul any harm.’

  ‘Didn’t he?’ she said curiously. ‘Not many go through life without harming somebody.’ She shrugged away the moment. ‘But that’s what everyone says,’ she agreed, striding on, looking ahead. He had some difficulty in keeping up with her.

  ‘That pram must be in the bottom of the canal, then,’ he said a little breathlessly. ‘With all the other junk. And it’ll stay there now.’

  She reached the public bar door first, pushed it open and reached for her handbag.

  ‘No, please,’ argued Davies, rummaging in his pocket. ‘What would you like?’

  She regarded him challengingly. ‘It’s my local,’ she said.

  ‘So it is,’ he agreed. He smiled directly at her. ‘A pint please.’

  She came back with a beer for him and a lager for herself. They sat down behind a scarred table. It was only just beyond opening time, and they were the only customers. A waft of street air came in, followed by a man with a dog. His head half revolved in jerks like someone late for an appointment. He grunted and went out.

  ‘How did you come to let them call you Dangerous?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It just grew.’

  She laughed slightly. ‘Some things are like that,’ she said. ‘They call me Jemma.’ As they were drinking, she said casually: ‘Funny how they called poor old Brock “Lofty”, wasn’t it? It was one of those reverse jokes. Like you being called Dangerous.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Davies thoughtfully. ‘I mean, he was hardly an inch over five feet.’

  ‘One inch,’ she answered. ‘He was five feet one inch.’

  He regarded her oddly. He said: ‘I get uncomfortable sometimes about things like this. A man is dead, there’s an inquest, an open verdict because nobody knows how or why, really nobody cares and that’s that. “Rest in Peace Wilfred Henry Brock.”’

  ‘An inconsequential death,’ she
said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Two

  On the final day of his sick leave, an hour of limp sunshine in the early afternoon provoked Davies into taking his dog for their well-worn walk, along the canal bank and among the stone fingers of Kensal Green Cemetery. He brushed Kitty as much as the animal would allow and set off with him attached to a tough length of rope since he had again chewed through his lead. The dog played awkward games, either tugging him powerfully or lingering so long that he had to drag him. By the time they had reached the canal bank, however, Kitty had become bored by the sameness of the afternoon and trundled along sulkily. The water reflected the pale sun like a trodden flower. There was the usual debris: floating tins and soaked pieces of wood, an armchair like a half-sunken ship, and the evidence of the previous night’s sins committed on the tow-path.

  It was not cold, but Davies pulled his collar high about his neck as if it might afford some protection from the urban squalor. Even on a good day in that atmosphere buildings that were not very distant became grey silhouettes. Moodily he mounted the steps towards the road bridge. Halfway he looked up and saw Jemma standing at the top.

  ‘Looking for Lofty’s pram?’ she called down.

  He glanced up guiltily. ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he said. ‘Just taking this beast for some exercise.’

  ‘I saw you walking. Staring into the water.’

  ‘I was thinking I ought to have bought shares in the London Rubber Company, that’s all,’ he said, reaching the pavement level. ‘They’re very popular again now.’

  She had not moved, and now they were standing quite close to each other at the top of the bridge. She was wearing the fine red coat she had worn at the inquest, but because of the mild day it was open like a door all down her front. For the first time he saw her interior. Even now he tried not to look, although the edges of the coat were kept apart by the accommodation of her bosom. ‘We were just going into the cemetery,’ mentioned Davies. She began to walk with him. He glanced around, hoping someone he knew might see them together.