The Complete Dangerous Davies

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Too early,’ she pointed out. ‘Not open yet.’

  ‘Go and buy a sausage roll then,’ he urged. He thought there was some movement in the betting-shop doorway. ‘Or another bag.’

  ‘If you want then I’ll piss off,’ she said haughtily. She took and examined the coin and dropped it disdainfully into one of the large carrier bags. ‘I got things to do anyway. Places I got to go.’

  She started to gather her bags and he made to help her but she pushed him loftily aside. ‘Hands off my property,’ she said. Her eyes were like liquorice. ‘I don’t trust coppers.’

  With a deep sniff she heaved up her bags and proceeded along the street only pausing to stop several passers-by and point out Davies to them. ‘Copper!’ she called back belligerently. ‘Trying to bribe an old woman!’

  To his immense relief Mod came out of the betting shop. A bus arrived simultaneously and Mod had to trundle across the road to get out of its path. They got on the bus and went to the top deck. ‘So what happened about Pengelly?’ he said gritting his teeth.

  Mod said: ‘Why were you talking with that old bag woman?’

  ‘I thought I might take her for a fortnight’s holiday,’ groaned Davies. ‘Tell me what happened about Pengelly.’

  ‘Well, fortunately, the chap in there remembered him. He was called Bill Page then, of course. As you said. It was some time ago but he recalls there was a theft or a misappropriation of money. Page was done for it and they threw him out.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t know a lot more. I told him I was a debt collector, which I thought was pretty astute.’ He glanced at his companion for approval.

  Davies said: ‘Brilliant’ and sighed deeply. ‘And what about after the theft case? Where did Pengelly go?’

  Mod had been puzzling the answer and now the uncertainty clouded his dark face. ‘He went off to work with badgers,’ he shrugged. ‘That’s what he said.’

  Davies regarded him unbelievingly. ‘Badgers?’ he echoed. ‘What badgers?’

  ‘Goodness only knows, Dangerous. I thought it might mean something to you. All I could think was that it was something to do with shaving brushes.’

  Then Davies realised. A large, rough grin filled his face. ‘Badgers,’ he said. ‘Not Badgers. Beavers.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right,’ said Mod relieved. ‘I stand corrected. Wrong animal.’

  The conductor came up the stairs for the fares. Davies was still smiling as he paid. ‘Beavers,’ he ruminated. ‘Why didn’t I think of that before.’

  ‘What’s beavers got to do with it?’ inquired Mod whispering in case the conductor had loitered on the stairs.

  ‘The Beaver Trade,’ said Davies. ‘You’ve never heard of the Beaver Trade?’

  ‘Something Canadian?’

  ‘No. The Beaver Trade, Mod, is photographic. It refers to pubic hair, usually female. Our friend Pengelly was in the pornography business. And I bet his mate, Mr Dulciman, was too!’

  Twelve

  Years before, Davies had been on a course concerning burglary and breaking and entering. The optimum time, and criminals were well aware of it, for breaking into business premises was six o’clock in the evening. Now he was going to try it.

  Even Boscombe had a rush hour, early in the year though it was, and the main street and its tributaries were busy when he surveyed the premises of Pengelly Associates and the Good-time Escort Agency from the café across and slightly along the street. Cafés, in his experience, were rarely sited conveniently for surveillance, rarely directly opposite the place under observation, often a difficult fifty to a hundred yards to the left or right resulting in some odd postures having to be adopted by the watching officers and frequently cases of cricked necks.

  Both the offices he was observing were now unlit. There had been a light in the lower of the two rooms, until five thirty when it had been extinguished. He had seen no one leave the building but they may well have done so because a funeral procession had occupied his field of vision for some time, the hearse having had a blown tyre.

  At six o’clock he made his move. He could not have stayed for a fourth cup of tea because it would have looked suspicious and the tea was terrible. As it was, the woman with the urn had made remarks about how thirsty he must be. ‘It’s your tea, love,’ he said. ‘Never tasted tea like it.’ She blushed and said she would tell her husband.

  Davies strolled across the street. He had often thought that nobody ever looked so furtive as a policeman, nor so suspicious, and he felt so now. But Boscombe was hurrying and no one stopped and stared at the secretive man. He sidled through the held-up traffic (the funeral had caused a long tailback which even now was not cleared) and quickly entered the door at the side of the greengrocer’s shop.

  The passage and the stairs were dark. He went up on the edges of his shoes, poking his head as far around the top bend as he could. The landing was dark also. He had already decided to break into the escort agency first. He had studied the lock on his previous visit and he did not think it would cause him many difficulties. He produced the clever instrument which he had taken from a cat burglar called Jennings several years before, and had kept for moments like this. Jennings, in exchange for some fair treatment and food in the police station, and a guardedly favourable mention in court, had tutored him in the use of the tool. He had often used it when returning to Bali Hi late at night when he had forgotten or lost his key. It could be worked on locks of all different sizes and the door was no match for it.

  The lock surrendered with a brief click. He eased the door open. Sitting in the semi-darkness, in a chair, was one of the biggest men he had ever seen.

  ‘’Evening,’ said Davies swallowing. ‘Mr Pengelly about?’

  ‘You’re breaking in,’ said the man, his voice as threatening as his size. He stood up and stepped towards Davies.

  ‘I’m an old friend,’ Davies tried desperately. ‘Haven’t seen him for years, and I thought I’d …’

  ‘… Just pick the lock and see if he was here,’ finished the man.

  ‘You’re the security chappie, are you?’ chatted Davies desperately.

  ‘You got that right,’ said the man punching him in the stomach. Davies doubled up and fell back so that he was sitting on the floor. ‘Stop it,’ he said as if his assailant were playing some sort of joke. ‘Pack it in, will you.’

  He used up all his remaining breath on the plea. The guard stood over him like a stormtrooper. Davies clutched his stomach and leaned forward with the action. The boots of the security guard were each side of his body. Davies reached out and catching the boots at the heels, pulled sharply, sending the man toppling back onto the desk. He rolled sideways falling onto the chair in which he had been sitting. Davies clambered awkwardly from the floor and, as the man regained his feet, hit him with both fists at once. The result was disappointing. The man’s eyes blinked.

  Davies moved in to close quarters. He tried to remember what you did, apart from the obvious with the knee. Every fight he had ever had as a police officer had been of the roughhouse variety where there was no opportunity for theory. He brought his knee up towards the guard’s groin, but the man, who was left-footed, was doing the same thing to him and their knees collided. ‘You … you …’ bellowed the guard as if searching for a phrase for foul play.

  ‘You … you,’ howled Davies.

  They closed against each other, rocking body to body, a ridiculous ballet of large and unfit men in combat. Davies tried a punch to the chin but only struck his opponent’s chest. ‘You …’ the man shouted. ‘I’ve been in ’ospitai.’

  ‘Are you better now?’ asked Davies repeating the punch. Doubly enraged, the guard rushed into Davies and, taking him in a bear hug, wrestled him to the door.

  The force of the onrush took them onto the landing and Davies hung on. But the banisters of the stairs were weak, and with a doomful crack they gave way. Both men toppled over.

  They hit the stairs separately.
Both howled in pain and shock and sprawled moaning in chorus until Davies summoned strength enough to stagger to his feet, step over the doubled form and stumble into the street.

  ‘Well,’ philosophised Mod wandering to the window. ‘At least it’s a change of hospital.’ He peered out, his big back bent. ‘Better outlook than Willesden. There’s a view of the sea.’

  Davies was nursing bruised ribs. ‘It’s the bump on your forehead I don’t like,’ intoned Mod turning and swaying. ‘It’s like an aubergine.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ said Davies. ‘I won’t be long in here anyway. For a change there’s nothing broken.’ He looked downcast. ‘It’s a pity you couldn’t contact Jemma.’

  ‘A message was all I could do,’ said Mod. ‘You are hoping that you might be reconciled?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Davies miserably. ‘I wouldn’t mind if I was guilty. But I didn’t do anything.’ The emphasis made him wince.

  ‘Apart from taking pity on that poor young woman and allowing her to share your bed,’ Mod pointed out sagely. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Well there wasn’t,’ retorted Davies wincing again. He put both hands cradling his ribs. ‘Nothing happened. We just went to sleep.’

  Mod held up his large hands. ‘I believe you, Dangerous. But I am not a woman.’

  A bustling nurse came into the ward holding a telephone at arm’s length. ‘For you,’ she said to Davies. She plugged it in at the bedside. ‘Don’t get excited. It will hurt.’

  He picked up the receiver. ‘Davies here.’

  Mod watched his expression. His face lit. ‘No, I won’t talk too much. Yes, it’s agony. You will? Oh, good. Thanks. Thanks very much.’

  He put the phone down and grinned at Mod. ‘She’s coming down to get me.’

  The telephone rang again. ‘She’s changed her mind,’ muttered Mod. Davies picked it up.

  ‘Mr Davies, can you take another call? It’s a Mr Pengelly.’

  Davies’ eyebrows rose. ‘He’s an old friend.’

  ‘Davies?’ inquired the voice.

  ‘This is he,’ replied Davies primly.

  ‘It’s Pengelly. Why were you trying to burgle my office last night?’

  Davies assumed an affronted tone. ‘Now would I do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pengelly emphatically. ‘You picked the lock.’

  ‘I merely wanted to see if you were at home,’ said Davies ambiguously. ‘And sitting there was a monster. He nearly killed me, Pengelly.’

  ‘The monster has a fractured kneecap,’ said Pengelly. Davies realised that the voice was different, low, uncertain, on the defensive. Pengelly paused. ‘I think we ought to have a talk.’

  Mod saw the expression brighten. ‘When and where?’ asked Davies.

  ‘The sooner the better. This afternoon. In an hour say.’

  ‘All right. On the bench in the park opposite the Royal Bath Hotel … where you and Mr Dulciman used to meet.’

  ‘All right,’ said Pengelly sourly. ‘In one hour.’

  ‘You’ll know me,’ said Davies. ‘I’m the bloke clutching my ribs.’

  Smiling thoughtfully he replaced the telephone. Mod looked worried. ‘You’re going to just walk out of here?’ asked Mod.

  ‘I’ll come back,’ Davies promised. ‘They won’t know I’ve gone.’

  He took Mod with him. ‘I’m in no state to have another punch-up,’ he said when they were on the bus. Calling a taxi would have aroused suspicion. No one had seen them walk out.

  ‘Sit on a bench not too far away,’ instructed Davies. ‘Read a paper. If there’s any violence …’

  ‘Run?’ suggested Mod.

  They left the bus at different stops; Davies first. By the time he was sitting on the bench Mod was concealed behind the public lavatories. Pengelly appeared on time, hard-faced, and slumped on the other end of the bench. Mod appeared, being berated by a council employee for hanging around the toilets. He shuffled away and sat on the next bench.

  ‘Your bodyguard’s been sussed,’ said Pengelly.

  Davies looked about him blandly. ‘My bodyguard?’

  ‘Forget it. I’m not going to do anything rough, even if you’ve got bruised ribs. I want to talk to you, Davies. I want to get you off my back for good.’ He moved up the bench a foot towards Davies. ‘I had nothing to do with Dulciman’s disappearance, death or whatever.’

  ‘You were in a dodgy business with him, Bill Page. Pornography.’

  ‘So you’ve done your homework. All right, so we were. And we fell out, badly, but I still didn’t do for him.’

  ‘How long had you been taking dirty pictures together?’

  ‘Years. Down here and before that in London when it was a risky business. Nowadays it’s nothing like as much. Only kiddie porn and animals is asking for trouble.’ He smiled grimly: ‘No children or dogs allowed.’ He went on: ‘Every one of our models was over sixteen and they were all human.’

  ‘How come then you were so shifty about it?’ asked Davies moving his face a trifle closer.

  Pengelly looked at him as if he knew he would not be believed. ‘I didn’t want my auntie to know,’ he breathed. ‘And I was standing for the council.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Davies. He looked wildly around as if seeking a witness.

  ‘I knew you’d say that. But it’s true. My auntie was rotten rich and I had every expectation of getting my hands on some of it when she snuffed it. Well, last week she did snuff it.’

  ‘Get away,’ said Davies quietly. ‘And has she left you some loot?’

  ‘Yes, That’s why I want to get this straight with you.’

  ‘Are you asking me to believe that you were standing for the council?’ Pengelly nodded. ‘There was some land an acquaintance of mine wanted to get his hands on. To build some flash houses. But then the bottom fell out of the building business, so that went by the board and I lost interest in local government.’

  ‘Tell me about Dulciman,’ said Davies.

  ‘He was a terrible old shit,’ volunteered Pengelly. ‘Twisted as they come, theft, blackmail, conning. It was all the same to him.’

  ‘But business was good.’

  ‘You know what the beaver trade is like. Well, was like. The recession’s hit that like everything else. But it used to be a goldmine. We did very nicely out of it. All studio stuff. Hard porn. As far as we could go. He wanted to do kiddies as well, but I didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘Where did the models come from?’ asked Davies. ‘Not from your agency?’

  Pengelly looked offended. ‘Some of them did.’ His eyes flicked around nervously. ‘The younger stuff, well there’s plenty of it around here. Unemployed teenagers. Mostly girls, of course. They were more than happy. They’d do anything. Anything.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s a job of sorts,’ commented Davies thoughtfully.

  ‘And well paid. We gave them fifty quid a session. Sometimes more depending …’

  ‘You’re not involved now?’

  ‘No. I got out after Dulciman disappeared.’

  ‘Do you think his vanishing trick may have been connected to the … er business?’

  Pengelly nodded. ‘It could have been. We started getting interest from the London boys. Moving in on us. We were getting threats. Then he vamooshed.’ He waited. ‘That’s all I wanted to say. Just to let you know I had bugger all to do with it.’

  He stood. Davies remained thoughtfully on the seat. ‘Cheers,’ said Pengelly beginning to walk away. ‘Hope your ribs get better.’

  ‘We’ve been searching for you everywhere,’ the matron told Davies bitterly. ‘You can’t simply walk out like that.’ She regarded him sourly. ‘We really do not want your sort here, Mr Davies. If I had my way you’d never be admitted again.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ mumbled Davies. The matron turned to Mod and regarded him with speechless scorn. Mod nodded humbly.

  ‘I understand that someone is coming to collect you,’ she said, revolving ba
ck to Davies. She sniffed as if he were someone who could only be collected.

  ‘Yes, matron,’ he said not meeting her eye. ‘My lady friend from London.’

  ‘Your lady friend?’ Her voice was loaded with doubt.

  ‘Here she comes now,’ muttered Mod. They were in the reception area of the hospital and Davies half turned and saw Jemma coming through the outer doors. He smiled deeply.

  The matron turned to see and her face altered. ‘Oh … I see,’ she muttered.

  Jemma walked in black and beautiful, then almost ran towards Davies and flung her arms crushingly about him. ‘My ribs!’ he cried. ‘Oh, my ribs!’

  ‘It’s his ribs,’ said the matron unnecessarily. ‘He has bruised ribs.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Jemma hurriedly to the matron. ‘Of course.’ She turned to Davies. ‘Oh, Dangerous, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tipped that curry on your head.’

  Matron gave up. With a huge pouting sigh she whirled and strode off, her starched uniform crackling. ‘This is a hospital,’ she emphasised over her shoulder. ‘There are seriously ill patients in here.’

  Davies rolled his eyes towards the exit. He signed a book to say he was leaving at his own risk and ten minutes later they were driving from Bournemouth, east then north, towards London.

  ‘We saw our friend Mr Pengelly this afternoon,’ said Davies, his arms hugging his ribs.

  ‘You did? What did he say?’

  ‘He said he did not kill Dulciman, nor cause him to vanish, although they had fallen out over business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘Hard-core porn.’

  She kept her eyes on the road. ‘So that was it.’

  ‘Giving much needed employment to young people,’ he added.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘He said not. Dulciman wanted to do it but Pengelly said he wouldn’t. Very sporting. Nor animals. No girl with guard dog stuff. He was frightened his auntie might find out and cut him out of her will. Oh, and he was standing for the council.’