by Hania Allen
Well, fuck you very much for asking, sir.
It was 11.20am and he was late. As usual. But there was no point fretting. Tubby Wainwright kept his own time. Over the rim of her mug, Von cast an eye around the Euston Road caff, wondering what the customers would think if they knew she was a detective waiting for her snout.
There were three other people there: a middle-aged couple who sat a few tables away, the woman speaking in bored tones to the man, who kept his eyes glued to his newspaper, and the mousy-haired waitress. She’d left the counter and was clearing away the remains of the fat breakfasts, stacking the plates noisily. Although it was still morning, she moved with the same lethargy that Von remembered from her own summer jobs waiting tables. Von had eaten in this caff when she was training – it did the best mutton pie in London – but it had downsized considerably since. The décor was the same, though: the custard-yellow walls still sweated grease and the strip lights still flickered. The other things unchanged were the smell of chip fat, and the artery-clogging menu. And the tea was always scalding.
It wouldn’t have been her first choice of meeting place, but Tubby would have no other. And she was the one asking the favour.
She’d positioned herself so she could see the door. Ten minutes later, a short man with a shock of red hair and John Lennon glasses arrived.
He gave no indication he’d seen her, just sauntered to the counter, his red-and-gold cowboy boots clicking on the lino. He brought a mug to her table. Still not meeting her eye, he reached for the sugar bowl and all but emptied it into his tea.
She knew the routine. Tubby wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence until she did it. She rose and went to the counter. A minute later, she returned with a large plate piled high with cream cakes and set it down in front of him.
‘Hello, Chief Inspector,’ he murmured. ‘Long time, no see.’
He took a chocolate éclair from the pile and bit into it. Cream oozed from the sides and dripped onto the table. She watched him eat. He wouldn’t be hurried. And he was worth the wait.
He’d been her grass for longer than she could remember. He was one hundred percent dependable and, since the death of the wheel man for a London gang who’d turned Queen’s evidence (but not before he’d made a pile of money that would start a bank) she used no-one else.
She’d been a detective sergeant when she met him. It was her first collar. He’d been selling ladies’ watches on Oxford Street, watches which had disappeared the day before from a large department store. She’d bought one, then returned the following day when he was selling brassieres. She complained the watch wasn’t working and she’d have the law on him unless he got her a replacement. His watery blue eyes, huge behind the spectacles, stared helplessly at her. He’d get one if she came back later that day, he said. She waited in a nearby alley till he passed, then shadowed him to the store, nodding at the house detective as she followed him in. Tubby was good – he knew how to work it so the theft was hidden from the cameras – and she found herself grudgingly admiring his expertise. As he stepped out onto the pavement, she arrested him. In the dock, he kept the jury in stitches, chronicling his exploits. When asked if he’d stolen the watches, he replied, I never stole them, My Lord, I just liberated them from captivity.
She was waiting for him on his release. She’d taken him to this caff. And she’d made him a deal. That was several years ago. He’d been in prison only once since, for robbing a bank. His undoing was that he knew the clerk. When he saw how terrified she was, he lifted his hood and whispered, ‘It’s all right, Ellie, it’s only me’.
Tubby had finished the cakes. He belched lightly, and loosened the bottom two buttons of the striped waistcoat he’d bought on the Portobello Road. A smile of contentment spread over his spotty face.
‘You’ve lost weight, Tubby,’ she said affectionately. ‘Spanish cuisine not agreeing with you?’
‘Too rich, by far. Though there are some fish and chip shops and Irish pubs now.’ He slurped his tea. ‘So, what’s your pleasure, Von?’
‘I’ve a job for you.’
He waved a soft white hand. ‘If it’s like the last one—’
‘This is nothing like that. I want you to do some fishing for me.’
‘That’s what you said last time.’
She lowered her voice. ‘Have you heard of the Iron Duke?’
‘Course I have. He won some war, didn’t he?’
‘I mean the pub.’
‘In that case, no.’
‘It’s in Soho.’ She pushed a piece of paper across. ‘Here’s the address. I want you to have a good sniff around.’
He gazed at her, his eyes swimming behind the lenses. ‘What smell are you expecting to find?’
‘Do you remember the Jack in the Box murders?’
‘When was it?’
‘1985.’
‘I was on the Costa del Sol in the eighties. Enjoying the sun with me mates.’
‘You stayed straight that long?’ she said, blowing on her tea.
He shifted in the chair, lowering his eyes. ‘I did a few jobs, just to keep my hand in, like.’
‘Fleecing the Spaniards?’
He looked up, scandalised. ‘Von, I swear. I never touched the locals. People who do that give honest thieves a bad name. No, I only fleeced the tourists.’
‘I’m not interested.’ She leant forward. ‘But this job is important. I’m running a murder investigation and all roads lead to the Duke.’
‘Murder?’ His eyes narrowed.
She hesitated. Her sergeants had got nowhere showing their hand and she doubted she and Steve could succeed where they’d failed. Tubby was now her only hope. But, if he was to play the innocent successfully, the less he knew about Max Quincey the better.
‘I want you to find out what’s going on there,’ she said. ‘All I can tell you is there’s some kind of scam. I need to know what it is, and who’s controlling it. It may be long running, going back at least fifteen years.’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘Drugs?’
She didn’t recall mention of drugs in Harrower’s file, but the area was notorious for it. ‘It may be something bigger.’
‘Bigger? How much bigger?’
‘No idea. I’ve nothing to go on.’
He scratched between his legs. ‘When do you need this by?’
‘Yesterday. But I’m prepared to wait if that’s what it takes.’
The silence lengthened.
‘So, do we have a deal?’ she said. ‘Okay, I’ll take that lame grin as a yes. Now, let me get you more tea.’
She returned from the counter and placed the mug in front of him, drawing her head back to escape the smell of rancid fat from his hair.
‘Ta very much, Chief Inspector.’ He lifted the mug and, with a practised movement, withdrew the notes she’d left underneath. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Von and Steve were in her office, finishing the greasy specials from the station’s canteen.
‘The Duke seems to be the key to this whole thing,’ she said, wiping coleslaw off her fingers. ‘I let the genie out of the bottle when I sent the others in. It was a bad mistake, Steve.’
‘You think your snout will succeed where they failed?’ ‘
If anyone can do it, he can.’
Steve rubbed his neck. ‘I’ve never been able to get anywhere with snouts. The last one was a disaster. He wore his wire outside his clothes.’
‘Ever tried seasoned criminals? When I engaged mine, I didn’t realise how ahead of the curve I was.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘Talking of the Duke, there’s someone else who might shed light on what’s going on there.’
‘Charlo’s pimp, Jimmy Porteous?’
‘Larry said Porteous would sometimes go to the Duke with his boys. Maybe he still does. He’s the last living link to Manny and the others.’ She considered Steve’s half-eaten pork pie, lying in its wrapping. ‘You’re obviously not hungry. Let’s go.’
He stared at the pie. ‘Now?’
It was in one of these run-down estates that Jimmy Porteous lived, on the fifth floor of a high-rise block of flats.
Unwilling to leave the Toyota unattended, Von instructed Larry to stay at the wheel. She and Steve climbed the stairs carefully, stepping over refuse and trying not to brush against the walls. They reached the fifth floor, and paused to get their breath. The temperature had dropped, and the wind was stiffening, snatching up leaves and litter and hurling them into the air. She peered over the balcony, wondering how Larry would cope with the unwelcome attention he was attracting. He’d opened the car door and was talking to a group of teenagers, one of whom was showing more than usual interest in the Toyota’s paintwork.
‘I imagine this part of London’s a bit like Glasgow,’ she said.
Steve was a pro at this game. ‘Glasgow’s not nearly as up-market.’ They exchanged smiles.
She turned her attention to Porteous’s door. When there was no reply to her knock, she hammered with her fist.
‘Why not try the bell, boss?’
‘It’s broken.’
He examined the hinge. ‘So is the door.’ He put his shoulder against it and forced it open.
‘Jimmy Porteous?’ she shouted.
‘In here,’ came a voice from inside.
They stepped into the tiny hallway. Her first instinct was to cover her mouth and nose. ‘God, Steve, what a stink.’
‘Reminds me of home. That heady mix of damp plaster and stale cabbage.’
‘Where are you, Mr Porteous?’
‘In the kitchen. Through the lounge.’
‘He’s taking a risk, letting in strangers,’ Steve said, following her.
‘Look around you. What is there to steal?’
The lounge had once been a pleasant room, its centrepiece the gas fire with tiled surround, but it had been allowed to fall into decay. A thin film of dust covered the surfaces, the foam sofa had split across the back, and the striped orange curtains were faded and in tatters.
She stepped over the empty food cartons and Coke cans, trying to find a place for her feet. As she brushed against a box, something sleek and black ran across the room.
The door to the kitchen was open. A middle-aged man, his black hair flecked with grey, was standing on a chair, relieving himself into the sink. He was wearing a black shirt and crumpled blue and white pyjama bottoms. On his feet were felt slippers that had once been red.
He turned, still urinating, and grinned, revealing badly-discoloured teeth. ‘The loo’s blocked,’ he said, shaking himself. ‘You’ve caught me at a bad time. I was just getting dressed.’
He stepped off the chair and held his hands under the tap. With a rapid motion, he ran them over his face.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, wiping his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. ‘I don’t expect guests at this time of day.’ His eyes slid over her body, lingering at her breasts. He tilted his head, a calculation in the eyes. ‘I take it you want a boy. You after a threesome?’
‘We’re police,’ she said, showing him her warrant card. ‘Are you Jimmy Porteous?’
He wiped his mouth with his knuckles, barely glancing at the card.
‘Relax, Mr Porteous. We’re just after some information.’ She gave this time to sink in. ‘You lived with Charlo Heggarty, I understand.’
For an instant, an expression of hopelessness appeared on his face. ‘Is that a question?’
‘We know you lived with him, it’s in your statement,’ she said in a friendly tone. She was keen not to upset him. ‘Have you heard of Max Quincey?’
‘Can’t say I have,’ he said guardedly.
‘He was arrested for Charlo’s murder, but released without charge.’
‘Why are you talking about Charlo after all this time? Have you caught the prick, then? Is it this Max guy?’
‘Max Quincey has been found murdered in the same way as Charlo.’
He came close enough that she could smell him. It was an oily sweaty smell, but she didn’t flinch. ‘The same way?’ he said.
‘We think the two murders are related. We’re hoping you can help us catch Quincey’s killer.’ She paused for effect. ‘And Charlo’s.’
He said nothing, but a veil came down over his eyes.
‘Are you a male prostitute, Mr Porteous?’
‘Me?’ He shook his head.
‘Do you still pimp boys?’ she said, smiling.
‘I’m not telling you anything.’
‘Please answer the Chief Inspector,’ said Steve.
‘I don’t have to.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘I know my rights, so piss off.’
It was time to take off the gloves. ‘Listen to me, Mr Porteous,’ she said, ‘this isn’t good cop, bad cop. This is a woman having her period and perfectly within her rights to drag your arse down to the nick. So what’s it to be? Do you answer my questions here or from a police cell?’
Her change of mood unsettled him. ‘Okay, yes, I run boys.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ She glanced around. There was nowhere to sit in the kitchen. ‘Shall we go into the lounge?’
He nodded silently.
Remembering the rat, she took the armchair furthest from the sofa. Steve sat at the table. Porteous sprawled on the sofa, oblivious that his flies were gaping.
‘Mr Porteous, I’d like you to take a look at this photograph,’ she said. ‘It’s Max Quincey. I think you’ve seen him before.’
‘The ponce with the fancy clothes. Yeah, I’ve seen him,’ he said in a bored tone.
‘How well did you know him?’ ‘
I didn’t. I just saw him at the Duke. He was always there.’
‘What was he doing?’ ‘Picking up boys. Same as the other punters.’
‘When was this?’
‘Years ago.’
‘Around the time of the Jack in the Box murders?’
He nodded, watching her.
‘Did Max Quincey ever come here?’
‘Here? No, he never came here.’ He said it as though she’d insulted him.
‘Tell me about the boys, Jimmy, the ones killed at the same time as Charlo. I’m trying to build up a picture of what they were like.’ When there was no response, she added, ‘You do remember who they were?’
‘I remember.’ He bit his lip. ‘There was Liam,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Dark hair. Never could keep it combed.’ He lifted a hand to his face. ‘Had a stain here.’
She nodded encouragingly. So far, the description was accurate.
‘Always in demand, he was. One look at him would send the punters wild, even with the mark on his skin. It was the expression in his eyes. Cheeky like. Made a shedload of money on the game, he did. Bought himself a posh coat. Went right down to the ground. Liam. Never knew his last name.’ He smiled, as though at some secret. ‘Then there was Gilly. We called him Gilly McIlly. Red hair. Great pal of Charlo’s. Always larking about, the two of them were. From the same part of Dublin. Liam was quieter. I used to wonder why the other boys bothered with him. I asked Charlo once.’
‘What did he say?’ Steve pressed, when Porteous seemed disinclined to continue.
He looked up, as though surprised to see them still there. ‘He said they all looked out for each other, simple as that. You see, they hadn’t intended to go on the game. No-one does. I mean, what kid dreams of being a rent boy? No, they wanted to find jobs in London. Proper jobs. Brought money with them, to get themselves started, like. But
it ran out sooner than they thought. Much sooner.’ His expression softened. ‘They had no idea what it costs just to exist in London.’
He fetched tobacco and matches from the mantelpiece, and rolled a cigarette. ‘I picked up Charlo for myself,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Met him at the Duke. Brought him here.’ He struck a match. The loose strands of tobacco flared as they caught. He inhaled deeply, then dropped the spent match on the carpet. ‘Took a shine to him, I did. Told him he could stop with me if he liked. It was safer for him than on the street, so he was happy enough. At least he had a proper bed, not like some.’ His eyes focussed on the tip of his cigarette. ‘I let him bring his punters here. He did it mainly with straight couples who wanted threesomes. A good boy, was Charlo. And clean. Always washing himself. Used to keep the flat spotless.’ He glanced around. ‘I’ve let the place go a bit.’
‘What did the boys do when they weren’t with their clients?’ said Von.
‘Working, or looking for it. Sometimes they’d get things, you know, from the Jobcentre, like.’ He shrugged. ‘When that dried up, it was back to the Duke. Best place for punters. They’d get a drink, and sit and wait. I’d go with them, usually.’
‘Did you stay with them when they were with their clients?’
‘Sometimes.’ He tapped the cigarette, flicking ash onto the floor. ‘They felt safer when they knew I was round the corner. I only took a small cut of the takings.’
‘Did you love Charlo?’ she said gently.
‘Love him?’ A look of tenderness appeared on his face. ‘Sure, I loved him. And he loved me back.’ His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. ‘It’s not easy living on the estate when you’re like me. I still get banana skins in my face, and people making monkey noises. Charlo hated that. He’d have a go at them, he would. Got himself a couple of nasty shiners on account of it.’ There was a hint of pride in his voice. ‘If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.’ He ground the remains of the cigarette into the carpet. ‘I’ve never forgiven myself for not being here. You know, when it all went down. After Gilly was killed, I knew he wouldn’t be the only one.’
She felt the blood pounding in her ears. ‘How did you know, Jimmy?’