‘It doesn’t sound like Ray,’ Kate said. ‘I can’t say he’s my favourite person, but since I met you he’s done me some favours and begun to move in slightly less dodgy circles.’ She tried a tentative grin but Barnard didn’t respond.
‘No, it doesn’t sound the least bit like Ray. I’ve never known him carry a gun, let alone use one. Not like his crazy brother.’
‘So surely they want you to redouble your efforts to find him?’ she asked.
‘No, that’s exactly what they don’t want. They want him found, but not by me. The Yard have apparently told Jackson to take me off the case. Although I wouldn’t be certain that he didn’t make the decision all on his own.’ Kate looked at him, appalled.
‘You’re joking?’ she said. ‘Don’t they need all the knowledge you’ve got about the Robertsons?’
‘Apparently not,’ Barnard said angrily. ‘I’ve made a statement about my inquiries so far and that’s it. Finished. I’m confined to other cases and I guess if I step out of line they’ll suspend me or sack me. They’ve wanted me out ever since Jackson took over Vice. This is just the excuse they’re looking for.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
Barnard shrugged and sipped his Scotch.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I could still keep on looking for Ray, I suppose, but if I find him I’ll have to turn him in. Anything else and I’d find myself in the dock with him, if that’s what it comes to in the end.’
‘In a way they’re right, aren’t they?’ Kate said gently. ‘You’re too close to him to go hunting for him for murder.’
‘So what do I do?’ Barnard snapped. ‘Nothing at all? Let them hang him out to dry? There’s no way Ray would kill Rod Miller. The trouble is that the brass at the Yard don’t understand how the East End works.’
‘Can’t you just keep an eye on Jackson’s inquiries? Or an ear open, maybe? If you’re in CID every day that would let you keep in touch, wouldn’t it? They couldn’t keep the whole inquiry under wraps, could they?’
‘My first reaction was to jack it all in,’ he said. ‘But I reckon that’s what they want, so I won’t give them the satisfaction. It’s not as if I’m the only dodgy officer in Vice. They’re all at it one way or the other, but it’s small stuff, kickbacks, favours, finding a way to rub along with small-time crooks and get information without bringing Soho to a halt. It’s not about turning a blind eye to gangsters with guns. At least not unless you’re a much bigger fish than me. You remember DCI Venables?’ Kate shuddered. She remembered Ted Venables only too well.
‘That’s all very well but you’re still the only one who’s known the Robertson brothers since you were kids,’ Kate said. ‘Your bosses are never going to like that. Even with Georgie out of the way they’re going to think you’re too close to Ray, especially if they want to question him about this murder.’
‘Well, I can’t undo what happened during the war. We were thrown together then but in the end I decided I didn’t want to follow them down their road. I kept well clear for years and in the end helped put that bastard Georgie where he belongs. That obviously doesn’t count for anything with the Yard.’
Kate sighed. ‘Sleep on it,’ she said. ‘Come on, I’ll cook us a meal and then I’ll show you the pictures I took on Canvey Island.’
‘Oh yes, what did you think of it?’ Barnard sat up straighter in his chair, more than ready to be distracted.
‘Pretty bleak,’ Kate said. ‘But I did find a few people willing to talk to me, so I got some material for my captions. The trouble was the weather – misty and dark, so I’m not sure the pictures are really usable. I think I may have to go back on a better day and take some more. I’ll have to see what Ken thinks on Monday morning.’
‘Let’s have a look at them before you start cooking,’ Barnard said. Kate pulled the prints from her portfolio, glad to distract him, and he riffled through them quickly.
‘I see what you mean about the weather,’ he said. ‘Who are these three?’ He stopped at a clearer print of the three men she had met in the Red Cow. She smiled.
‘My new-found admirers. I met them in the pub. They couldn’t get their heads round my accent but in the end they were very helpful, showed me round and took me back to the station to catch the train. But I could see that they didn’t think it was a suitable job for a woman. Dead old-fashioned they were.’ But Barnard seemed to have stopped listening to her. He held another print in his hand, transfixed.
‘Who are they?’ he asked, holding out one of the last pictures she had taken showing the group of women on the edge of the building site, some of them scrabbling through what looked like a rubbish tip set apart from the new building.
‘Just locals,’ she said. ‘They think the builders may have dumped some of the remains of their houses that used to be on the site. They reckon they’ve lost things that could have been saved. I can imagine that must be pretty awful if you’ve seen your home washed away. Though they didn’t look as if they had much hope of finding anything useful. It was just a gesture, I think.’ Barnard nodded and jabbed a finger on the print.
‘I don’t think this woman is – or was ever – local. I think this woman used to be Ray Robertson’s wife. I saw her the other day in Regent Street, all dolled up to the nines then, which she’s not here. Looks as if she’s got her second-best mac on with the headscarf. But I’d swear that’s Loretta, and she told me she was looking for Ray. But why she thinks he might be on Canvey Island I can’t imagine. It’s the last place I could imagine either of them being. She doesn’t look as if she’s searching for anything very hard. She’s just watching. Did you get the names of any of these women?’
Kate shook her head.
‘I hardly spoke to them, and I didn’t need lots of names,’ she said.
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow,’ Barnard said quietly. ‘Do you fancy another little trip to Canvey? On my behalf this time. We could go together, and if it’s a better day you can take some more pictures to keep Ken Fellows happy.’
‘Are you sure that’s a sensible thing for you to do? Isn’t it a big risk if it has anything to do with Ray, or even his ex-wife?’
‘It may be,’ Barnard said, his face bleak. ‘But I really don’t think I can sit this one out and let them pin something on Ray that I’m pretty certain he’d never do. If Loretta has been down there for some reason, we may get a lead of some sort. Canvey is about the last place anyone would look for Ray – or for Loretta, for that matter. What do you think?’
FOUR
Harry Barnard was up early the next morning and brought Kate a cup of coffee in bed.
‘Did you get any sleep?’ she asked, looking at his slightly haggard face and knowing that he had not been in bed beside her for the whole of the night.
‘Not a lot,’ he said. ‘I thought if we are going out and about we could drop by Ray’s house in Epping, the one Loretta said he’d bought for her, though she doesn’t seem to be getting much benefit from it now. If anyone from the local nick is around, we’ll just drive by. If not, we’ll try to work out if he’s been there recently. It would give me a lead.’
‘Are you sure?’ Kate asked, sipping the strong brew he had given her. Italian coffee was a taste she was acquiring slowly, though she preferred it sweet. Coffee where she came from came out of a Camp bottle or was never seen at all. ‘Your car’s a bit conspicuous. People will remember it.’ Barnard took the point.
‘I’ll see if I can borrow something more anonymous if you like,’ he said. ‘Give me half an hour. I know a bloke with a garage in Archway who owes me a favour or three. And we’ll potter along at a very sedate pace so as not to attract the attention of Traffic. We’ll go to Epping first and then Canvey, then I’ll buy you some winkles in Southend. Bring your camera with you. It looks as if the sun might come out today.’ The idea of doing something possibly constructive – although Kate doubted that his boss would look at it that way – had obviously energized Barnard. He drank his coffee qu
ickly, put on his coat and hat, and disappeared before Kate had even got out of bed.
By mid-morning he was back with a slightly dilapidated green A40, which they set off in with much muttering from Barnard when it failed to start first time and more colourful language as he crunched the gears and it failed to accelerate as sharply as desired.
‘Take your time,’ Kate said mildly as he did an emergency stop behind a bus that had pulled up unexpectedly. ‘There’s no hurry, is there?’ Barnard shrugged and slowed down to something nearer the speed limit on the next clear stretch of road beyond Crouch End.
‘I suppose not,’ he said. But his anxiety obviously gnawed at him. They both knew that it was not just Ray Robertson’s future on the line but Barnard’s own as well, and this time he might not be able to keep Ray or himself out of trouble.
Kate watched the landscape change as they worked their way out of London and everything became greener. The houses got bigger, the golf courses more frequent, and the woodland began to close in on them. Eventually Barnard slowed down and turned into a narrow unpaved lane which was not signposted and looked like a track through the woods.
‘Somewhere down here,’ he said, as the car bumped over the rutted road. ‘On the right, set back a bit behind a high fence. I came here once years ago when he was still married to Loretta. He had a party to celebrate some deal he’d done.’ The houses along the lane were substantial and well scattered, and there was little sign of life apart from the large cars parked on the long driveways and a single gardener clipping a front hedge. Eventually Barnard slowed to a crawl.
‘That’s it,’ he said, stopping outside wrought-iron gates beyond which a large red-brick house with white window frames was visible. There was no sign of life. He continued slowly then turned the car round to face the way they had come before parking a couple of houses further up the road.
‘We’ll walk back,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of anyone from the local nick, so maybe they’ve not got out here yet.’
‘But they might still turn up?’
‘I’m sure someone will, though they’re probably a bit slow out here in the sticks. After all, it is Saturday morning. We’ll do a very quick recce to see if there’s any sign of Ray. But be prepared for a quick exit. I don’t want to have to explain to PC Plod what I’m doing here.’
They walked slowly back to the Robertsons’ gate, still seeing no sign of life, and then up the short gravel drive where no cars were parked. The gardens were neatly kept and the grass short but the ground-floor windows were securely shuttered. Taking a deep breath, Barnard knocked at the front door and listened carefully. But there was no response beyond a hollow echo.
‘We’ll have a quick look at the back,’ he said and led her on a circuit past the tall ground-floor windows to a paved yard with three garage doors on one side, the gated entrance to an extensive garden at the end, and what was obviously a kitchen door at the back of the house. He tried the handle but it was firmly locked, as were the garages. The rear of the house had a slightly neglected air that was not apparent from the front, as if no one had been there for a while or spent any time tidying the place up. Leaves had blown against the walls and back door and not been swept away, and a couple of dustbins had blown over.
‘Come on,’ Barnard said abruptly. ‘There’s nothing doing here.’ He did not seem much more relaxed, and Kate wondered what he would have said to Ray Robertson if he had found him holed up here in his mansion, but when they got back into the car and he succeeded in starting the engine at the third attempt she could see the obvious relief on his face. He drove slowly back down the bumpy lane, and as they waited to turn back towards London a police car approached from the opposite direction and turned into the narrow entrance. Barnard whistled quietly.
‘That was a bit close,’ he said with a grin. ‘Bloody good job we didn’t come in my car. The registration number on this won’t get them very far, even if they noticed it. It doesn’t really exist.’ Kate glanced at him as they swung south again and wondered how he had learned to be quite so devious.
It took them another hour to weave round East London and out into Essex, but finally Barnard took the bridge from Benfleet on to Canvey Island and slowed right down to take in the scene.
‘I’ve not been back since the week or so I spent here as a squaddie,’ he said. ‘It looks a bit more civilized now.’
‘The new building we talked about is down that way,’ Kate said, pointing to a side road leading away from the sea wall. Barnard pulled up by the almost completed block and sat staring at it for a moment, but the site was completely deserted.
‘That’s where I took that shot of the women,’ Kate said. ‘There were half a dozen of them milling about talking to a man who looked like a foreman or something.’
‘Perhaps your friends will be in the pub again,’ he said. ‘What’s it called, the Red Cow? They might know the names of some of the women in your picture.’
‘It’s worth a try, I suppose,’ Kate said doubtfully, thinking that it was not like Barnard to chase wild geese. Ray Robertson’s disappearance was really getting to him and she didn’t think it could possibly end well.
‘I could do with a drink,’ she said. ‘Though I warn you the food there is dreadful.’
But when they went into the Red Cow they found the lounge bar deserted and only a couple of young men playing a desultory game of darts in the tap room. The same heavily built man was leaning on the counter as on Kate’s last visit, this time intent on the Sporting Post. He showed no sign of recognition as she approached with Barnard. Eventually he looked up as if they were an inconvenience and raised an eyebrow. Barnard ordered a pint for himself and a shandy for Kate, but instead of going to a table he leaned on the bar as if willing the barman to take notice of them.
‘Quiet this morning?’ he said. Unable to avoid a direct question, the barman shrugged.
‘Always is this early on Saturday. The women like to go into Southend shopping and take their men with them, don’t they? Them that don’t are too decrepit to get out of the house mainly.’ His eyes flicked back to the racing news.
‘I was here yesterday talking to three old boys,’ Kate said bluntly. ‘Do you know if they’re likely to be in today?’
‘Nah, they don’t come in till later Saturdays. One of them’s got a boat and they sometimes go fishing if the weather’s good and the tide’s right. That’s where they’ll be this morning now the sun’s put in an appearance.’
‘Were you here in the flood in ’53?’ Barnard asked, so sharply that the barman looked startled.
‘I was, but we were OK here. We sat it out upstairs till it was safe to come down.’
‘Show him your picture, Kate,’ Barnard said. ‘Do you know any of these women? They were all here in the flood apparently, and I want to talk to one of them. It might be to her advantage financially – a bit of late compensation, as it happens.’
The barman cast his eye over the picture without enthusiasm but shook his head.
‘One or two of them I’ve seen around.’ He indicated a couple of the women, but not the one who Barnard thought might be Loretta Robertson.
‘Not her?’ he persisted.
‘Nah. I’ve never seen her before in my life.’ Barnard’s shoulders slumped and he drank his pint down quickly.
‘So she’s not local?’
‘Well, she might be,’ the barman said. ‘There’s new people moving in now the place is getting tarted up. But I don’t think she was here in the flood. She’s a bit of all right, isn’t she? Or would be if she smartened herself up. I’d have noticed her.’ He leered at Kate and Barnard put his arm round her, obviously annoyed.
‘Come on, honey,’ he said, guiding her away from the bar. ‘Let’s go. Have you ever been to Southend?’ Kate shook her head.
‘I’ll take you on the roller coaster,’ he said. ‘There’s a funfair there. We used to come out here when we were kids, once it’d opened again after the war.’
‘Sounds like the same sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Kate woke up late the next morning. She and Harry Barnard had not got back to the flat until after midnight, after an evening in Southend sampling the delights of the only half-functioning funfair and a fish-and-chip supper wrapped in newspaper and eaten on the pier. Surprised Harry had not woken her, she got up and found him in the kitchen frying bacon but his attention held by a Sunday paper spread out on the worktop.
‘That’s going to burn,’ Kate said, taking the fork out of his hand and turning the rashers over. ‘What’s so interesting in the paper?’
‘They’ve got a story about Rod Miller’s murder,’ he said. ‘Apparently he trained some quite well-known youngsters in his day. The boxing correspondent reckons he’s a serious loss to the sport. I wouldn’t have thought that myself, but there it is in the Sunday Express so I suppose it must be true.’ Kate looked sceptical. Her recent contact with a Fleet Street crime reporter had not impressed her very much.
‘Do you want an egg with this?’ Kate asked and turned back to Barnard when he did not reply.
‘Bloody hell!’ he said, more to himself than to Kate.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘They’ve got a bit about Ray Robertson in here as well. I know he owns the gym, but the way it’s written …’ He shrugged. ‘It says the police want to speak to him. And everyone knows what that means.’
‘They don’t know where he is, but they think he did it?’
‘And they want everyone to know they think he did it,’ Barnard said angrily. ‘The Yard must be behind this. I don’t reckon DCI Jackson’s that devious. The last time I spoke to him there wasn’t a shred of evidence against Ray and no witnesses who claimed to have seen him at the gym at the right sort of time. But after this every gangster and petty crook in London will be looking out for him. Some of them will be his mates, but an awful lot of them won’t. He’s made a lot of enemies in his time with his social climbing and he can be an arrogant bastard.’ Kate turned back to the bacon, which really was burning now. She tipped it into the sink and ran water on the smoking pan.
Deep Waters Page 5