Behind Closed Doors

by Michael Donovan

  ‘Who? Cohen or the guy who got slashed?’

  ‘With Cohen’s take on life I guess the other guy’s luck doesn’t come into it,’ Shaughnessy said.

  ‘Figures. So who did he slash?’

  ‘Officially the incident was a random scrap,’ said Shaughnessy. ‘Unofficially the victim appears to be a punter who got behind in his debts. The word is that Cohen has had a sideline supplying drugs since before his juvie. Nothing they’ve pinned on him. He’s just a name that crops up regularly. The guy’s strictly small time but nasty with it. According to the DPP the two GBHs are the tip of the iceberg. They cover a whole list of incidents that didn’t get to court. Victims who changed their mind and so on.’

  ‘What did he go down for the first time?’

  Shaughnessy laughed cheerlessly. ‘You’ll love this one, Eddie. He beat up his girlfriend and threw her out of a window. She fell two storeys and spent eighteen months in rehab. Still wouldn’t shop him. Cohen only went down because a witness disputed the girl’s claim that she’d fallen accidentally. The witness lived in the flat below. Claimed that the girl was screaming long before her acrobatics. In the end the jury went for the word of an independent witness against that of a victim with a shattered pelvis who remembered slipping on a banana skin.’

  I heard Shaughnessy’s sigh down the line. ‘How much punishment do these women have to take,’ he said, ‘before they realise that whatever they’re afraid of can’t be any worse than what’s actually happening?’

  ‘Psychology,’ I said. ‘Better the devil you know than a really pissed-off devil you know.’

  ‘This violence against girls,’ Shaughnessy said, ‘it’s not a good thing to be hearing.’

  ‘Nothing sounds good about Rebecca being involved with this guy. Did you pick up anything on what Cohen is up to right now?’

  ‘I talked to Steve at Hammersmith Magistrates’ Court,’ Shaughnessy said. ‘Cohen’s probation office is Balham. They have him officially on the dole. Waiting for the headhunters to offer him a City job. Word is he’s ticking over nicely with the drugs thing. Work’s a few casual door jobs.’

  ‘Did you get an address?’

  Shaughnessy gave me an address in Streatham. A council flat in a working class area. Whatever deals Cohen was into weren’t getting him rich.

  Shaughnessy said he would stay at the Slaters’ house for a while, see who came and went. Tomorrow we’d go for the direct approach. Confront the Slaters and suggest that they bring us in on what was happening or have it go public. If Rebecca was involved with someone like Cohen it might need sorting fast. I dialled Sadie to see if she had anything on Cohen’s door jobs. Her voice screamed into my ear over the top of another racket. I held the phone at a safe distance.

  ‘I knew it would be that creep!’ she yelled, ‘I knew he’d got her!’

  It’s impressive the way people are always ahead of us. What can they see that detectives can’t? Maybe the agency should recruit a few doorstep gossips and teenagers. Save a whole lot of legwork. I repeated my question about Cohen’s place of work.

  ‘Up the West End,’ Sadie said. ‘A place called Kicks?’

  ‘Is he there every night?’

  ‘Most. He starts around eight. That’s the time Becky’s always gone up there.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll go talk to him.’

  ‘Tell him that if he’s hurt her you’re going to tear him apart.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘unless he’s bigger than me.’

  ‘He’s not so big,’ Sadie said, ‘just a mean prick.’

  ‘Watch your language, young lady,’ I said.

  ‘Forget my language,’ she said. ‘You just get that bastard. I hate guys like that.’

  ‘So do I,’ I said.

  ‘Hey, Eddie?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘It’s a jacket and tie place? You might want to know.’

  The racket went dead. I held up the phone wondering whether service providers could be held responsible for the stuff that came through. The phone stayed silent for about five seconds before it bust into life again and nearly gave me a heart attack. I picked up and Arabel’s husky voice came over the airwaves.

  ‘How’s it going, babe? Thought you were never getting off the line.’

  ‘Just client stuff,’ I said.

  ‘I’m just checking that you’ve not forgotten that your girl has an appetite.’

  My girl had lots of appetites. I deduced that this one was a reference to our dinner-date. We were eating out before she went on shift.

  ‘I’m on my way, Bel,’ I said.

  She made me an offer: ‘If you got here early we could have a little hors d’oeuvre.’

  The invitation was tempting but if we started down that road we’d never eat. Didn’t seem fair to send the girl to work hungry. I turned down the offer and said I’d see her in an hour. The happy way she accepted told me that she knew her priorities too.

  ‘Bel?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you remember if I have a suit and tie?’

  ‘Are we going somewhere posh or are you getting kinky?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘A suit? Yeah. I saw something once. You’ll have to fight the moths though.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘So what’s with the dressing-up?’

  ‘Nothing’s with the dressing up. Just a passing thought. We’re eating Italian.’

  ‘Suits me. Gives me my carbs for eleven hours’ slog.’

  I put incredulous into my voice. ‘You telling me night shift is a slog?’

  ‘Babe,’ she said, ‘don’t fall ill and come to my hospital.’ She cut the line. It was a day for cut lines.

  CHAPTER fourteen

  I decided against the suit. Arrived at Arabel’s flat off Roman Road at ten past seven. The Italian restaurant was a five minute walk, a small place, not yet trendy but with the right buzz and food you couldn’t better in Rome. We ordered seafood platters and played footsie under the table while we waited. The fooling about was instigated by Arabel, to make sure I regretted her being on night shift as much as she did. In the verbal part of the conversation she asked about my missing girl. I gave her the latest. She picked up on the Cohen character. The image of a vulnerable girl tripping on the wild side had a particular resonance for her.

  ‘You think Cohen has got her into trouble?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I need to talk to him. The problem is that we’ve come into this hunt a week late.’

  ‘You think Rebecca may have been hurt already?’

  ‘It’s possible. But it doesn’t fit with the Slaters keeping quiet. If they thought Rebecca had been harmed they’d not be hiding anything. So either Rebecca has got herself into a fix or the Slaters are being coerced. The girl may be okay for the moment.’

  ‘Maybe she’s run away with this Cohen guy.’

  The seafood platters arrived. Each the size of a small table. Our allowance for a trip back to Arabel’s for her to change began to look marginal. We attacked our plates for a couple of minutes before I came up for air.

  ‘I don’t think Rebecca has run away,’ I told her.

  ‘Okay, so the Cohen guy is holding her. Perhaps he’s extorting the family.’

  ‘Dodgy boyfriend turns predator,’ I mused. ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘You need to be careful with him, babe,’ said Arabel. I’d given her Shaughnessy’s unflattering bio.

  ‘I’m always careful.’

  We left food on the plates. Clearing them would have put us both in A&E. We settled for a double espresso apiece that would keep Arabel on adrenaline for the shift and me hovering above my bed till morning. Then we walked back to her digs and six minutes later I escorted a lady of the medical profession out to
my car. Frogeyes don’t have central locking. I opened the door for her to squeeze in. The operation takes dexterity if you’re over five feet. In the case of females the squeezing in is incompatible with keeping hemlines where they should be. Even NHS hemlines. It paid to play the gentleman. Something about the awkwardness of the legs and the particular curves that formed as Arabel folded herself in could fairly distract a man. A girl might even suspect that you drive a car like a Frogeye to achieve that exact result. But Arabel was used to the car. She’d got slick at getting in and out and I knew that any difficulties were deliberate. She messed about until she figured I was truly regretting her being on shift then flapped her hand for the door.

  ‘Come on, babe. Are we staying here all night?’

  I took the question as rhetorical.

  I slammed the door and folded myself into the other seat. Dropped her at the hospital and got a last showing of her limbs as she climbed out.

  Then I turned the Frogeye and headed back onto the Mile End Road and followed the traffic towards the West End.

  Kicks nightclub had a smoked-glass entrance in a narrow street north of Chinatown. It was Thursday night and still early for the club scene. I watched the place from down the street. Saw one couple go in and a group of girls stop to chat with the doorman before deciding to get drunk somewhere cheaper. The doorman was a gorilla in a mid-calf trench coat and dickey-bow. He watched the street with his hands at his sides, looking for signs of enemy action. I wondered if the guy was Cohen.

  Only one way to find out.

  I walked down. When I stopped in front of him the guy gave me the doorman’s universal expression of boredom that lets you know that you’re looking at a shark behind the respectable veneer. The genie is corked but it’s your call. The guy was white, six-three, eighteen-plus stone.

  ‘I’m looking for Russell,’ I said.

  ‘What’s up?’ the guy asked.

  I didn’t ask him if he was Cohen. If he was then he already knew I didn’t know him.

  ‘Tell him I want a word,’ I said.

  He looked me over and decided that I wasn’t worth Cohen’s time. He shook his head.

  ‘He’s busy,’ he said. ‘See him tomorrow.’

  He focused his attention back on the street. I could either stand there or piss off.

  Instead I said; ‘I need to see Russell tonight. Okay if I drop inside?’

  I stepped forward but Dickey-Bow shifted casually and the door was suddenly blocked. It didn’t look like it was going to get un-blocked unless I called a tow truck.

  ‘Ties only, mate,’ he said. He was still watching the street, ignoring me the way a rhino ignores a flea. I wondered what it would take to shift him out of the doorway. I didn’t have a tow truck.

  I looked down the street myself. Gave it a few moments for him to register that I hadn’t disappeared. Then I turned back and gave him a stare I practice sometimes in the mirror. My Marginally-Sane. It got his attention. Probably he was petrified but he didn’t show it. He just stared right back like this was a very boring night. I carried on the act and jabbed my finger at the doors.

  ‘Why don’t you ask your friend to step out,’ I said. ‘Tell him Mr E wants a word. Unless he’d prefer us to call back later.’

  That’s E for Eddie. Lucky I wasn’t called Xavier. Hard to get someone to take you seriously when you tell them Mr X is waiting.

  I watched Dickey-Bow trying to work out whether Mr E was someone Cohen should be worried about or not. But the hint that the club might be visited later struck a chord. A visit didn’t sound good, even to someone who likes a rumble. He gave me a stare that let me know how hard he was working to hold it in, but he didn’t repeat his suggestion that I leave. I stayed watching the street.

  ‘Are you the rozzers?’ he said.

  I turned back. Gave him Stand-Up-Comedian. Looked round for the audience.

  ‘The rozzers?’ I said. ‘Who’s your optician, mate?’ I shook my head and pursed my lips like I was deciding whether it was simpler just to walk away and call back later with the boys. Dickey-Bow finally opted for caution.

  ‘Stay there,’ he said. He went in through the smoked glass. I turned to face the street again so that Cohen couldn’t ID me – or rather not ID me – without coming out onto the pavement. The ruse worked. When I turned back there were three of them on the steps. A bad publicity shot for The Blues Brothers.

  Next to Dickey-Bow was a black guy in shades. He was the same height but three feet wider. He’d either had his trench coat cut at a carpet factory or had mugged Demis Roussos. Rebecca’s dodgy boyfriend was white, which made him the last of the line-up. Russell Cohen was half the size of the others but his attitude made up for the missing body mass. Cohen was five-ten and fourteen stone max but my guess was that it all counted. His hair was a white fuzz capping a puffy, mean face. He sported shades that perfectly matched Carpet Man’s. Dickey-Bow was probably cursing that he’d left his own back home.

  Cohen’s expression was a contrived blandness. With this guy, the first you would know about trouble was when you connected with his ten-pound fist. His body stance though told me that the visit from Mr E had got him on edge. He was trying to figure if he’d brought trouble to the club.

  The three of them stared at me the way they’d watch a punter with holes in his jeans.

  ‘What’s your game?’ Cohen asked. ‘Who the hell’s Mr E?’

  I gave him straight-faced.

  ‘I’m Mr E,’ I said. ‘Eddie Flynn. You must be Russell.’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  You’d think that would have been obvious. I guess they keep the questions simple at the doormen’s examination boards. I let the query go. I had questions of my own.

  ‘I’m looking for Rebecca Townsend,’ I said. ‘I hear she’s pally with you.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  His answer slipped out so fast that I knew he wanted it to sound false. He wanted me to contradict.

  Detectives are the contradicting type. ‘We can do this the easy way,’ I said, ‘or the hard way.’ I wasn’t sure if it was Willis or De Niro had said that. If Cohen was a film buff he’d know. ‘Either way,’ I said, ‘I want to know where the girl is.’

  Dickey-Bow and Carpet Man flashed each other glances. Cohen just stared at me with the focus he’d apply to watching a fly on a turd.

  ‘I think,’ he said finally, ‘that you should piss off.’

  His voice was calm. Still waters.

  Despite the cool act I could see something tugging inside him. Maybe he still didn’t know what this was about, but he didn’t sense anything good brewing. What I sensed was the beginnings of movement from the two stooges at his side.

  Cohen decided that he had enough backup. He stuck with his proposal.

  ‘Sod off now, mate,’ he repeated, ‘before you get a smack.’

  ‘Russell,’ I told him, ‘it would take more than you.’

  Russell gave me incredulous and looked sideways to see if his buddies had dematerialised. They hadn’t. That must have boosted his confidence. He didn’t run for cover.

  ‘I’m looking for Rebecca Townsend,’ I repeated, ‘and I’m going to find her. Very soon. If she’s with you it’s better we talk now.’

  Cohen shook his head a little more emphatically, playing to his buddies. ‘What would be better,’ he said, ‘is for your plates to start shuffling down that old pavement. Before me and my friends get annoyed.’

  The sight of Cohen getting annoyed would be interesting. The sight of Dickey-Bow and Carpet-Man getting annoyed would probably be fatal. Dickey-Bow’s face had a look that said I might not need to wait too long for the experience. It looked like I’d exhausted my novelty value. Dickey-Bow leaned forward to explain the deal.

  ‘You’ve got five seconds,’ he said. ‘If I come off these steps Russell’s
gonna be the least of your worries.’

  I still didn’t move. Russell and I had a thing going. Messages passing between us. Before I knew it the five seconds were up and Dickey-Bow and Carpet Man were coming down the steps in a deceptively casual way. Just business as usual. Cohen watched and smirked. Some people you just can’t frighten. The two hulks rolling towards me were definitely frightening and looked about as stoppable as road rollers. There’s only one way to beat road rollers. Speed.

  I nodded a signal at Cohen and turned away. The gorillas could still have jumped me but I was backing off and top rule in the door business is don’t get blood on your suit before the punters are all in. I walked away in one piece.

  I headed back to where I’d left the Sprite parked on double yellows, musing at how detection is ninety percent frustration and ten percent results. That would be fine if the results weren’t so often negative.

  I’d got nothing for my detour except the certainty that if Rebecca was mixed up with Cohen she was in big trouble.

  The question was whether Cohen was involved in this thing at all, or whether I should be looking somewhere else.

  A real puzzle for Mr E.

  CHAPTER fifteen

  At seven next morning I was parked up by my substation outside the Slater home. The house was quiet. Larry Slater’s Lexus was still in front of the garage.

  There was a tap on the Frogeye’s window and Shaughnessy folded himself in with the sigh of someone trying a boot three sizes too small.

  Shaughnessy had parked his Yamaha somewhere down the lane. No one notices a bike. A bike is easier to get around on, too, but who wants his backside out in the rain every day? The Frogeye suited me fine and gave Shaughnessy something to complain about whenever I gave him a ride.

  ‘One day, Eddie,’ he said, ‘you’ll buy a car that doesn’t put my back out.’