London Calling
Page 16
‘Mac’s won’t be open yet,’ Charlie said, ‘but I think there’s a guy in the bar who has a key. If they’re open Sundays.’
‘Do you live in Soho, Charlie?’
Charlie laughed. ‘Over the shop, you mean? No. I got a room over the back end of Pimlico. I like it there as much as anywhere else in London. It’s close to everything I need to be close to.’
‘Are there a lot of black men in Pimlico?’
‘I guess not. Does that worry you? How many black people are there where you live?’
Vesta smiled. ‘Sometimes feels like I’m the only one in Brighton, though that’s not strictly true. There’s a fellow up at the racecourse and another who works on the pier. I’ve seen them.’
Charlie languidly slid his hand across the back of the seat, and Vesta felt a warm glow tingle up the back of her neck.
‘So you’ve been dating white men? Have you got tastes like Lindon?’
‘I get taken out!’ Vesta spluttered. ‘I don’t go ’cause they’re white or black.’
Charlie chuckled. ‘I bet you want to come home. Coming home gonna feel good, sister.’
Vesta crossed her arms. ‘I ain’t going nowhere,’ she sniffed.
‘Not till dinner.’ Charlie left it at that.
It was, Vesta realised, a curious sensation to feel that the tram ride was simultaneously interminable and fleeting. Some seconds seemed to drag and yet when she looked out of the window they were at Bermondsey Library already and the next time she checked they were at London Bridge. In town they dismounted and Charlie led the way. From the stop they had to walk north and west into the warren of Soho. Now and then he took her arm to help her across the cobblestoned roads. Charlie was so tall it felt like having a statue for an escort. He was somehow immoveable and yet very warm. Vesta found herself leaning into him as she walked.
‘This place is deserted!’ she declared.
Even the news-stands were closed, sealed with thick rope and heavy padlocks. Towards Windmill Street they passed a couple of pubs and caught the familiar whiff of cigarette smoke.
Eventually Charlie pointed at a tall building on the left-hand side of the street. ‘Mac’s is in there. First floor.’
Vesta peered. You’d never find the place if you didn’t know it was there. The windows were dark, in fact they looked blacked out, and the front door was closed. There was no signage. Even if the door had been open there was no light over it. ‘When does it open?’
‘Thursday nights and Sunday nights. That’s it. Things start about ten. Apart from the jazz, a couple of the restaurants use the place for storage out of hours, if you know what I mean. A place to stash black-market ingredients. Oh, and one or two of the big theatres rent it as a rehearsal room if they need extra space.’
‘But Rose and her lot knew to come here? I mean, they must’ve been before?’
‘I dunno,’ Charlie shrugged. ‘The two of them – Rose and the guy – they were all over town. They’d have heard about Mac’s. I never seen them here before but that doesn’t mean they hadn’t been.’
Vesta paced the pavement. ‘So, that night when Lindon leaves he comes down here with the three of them. Then a cab arrives. Probably just passing. They’d have hailed one. If not right here then up on the corner.’
‘And then the other girl calls her father and he calls the cops?’ Charlie looked around, checking behind him. ‘From up there,’ he pointed, ‘the closest phone box gotta be on Tottenham Court Road.’
Vesta started in the right direction, glancing at her watch. Sure enough, turning left at the corner of the main street there was a red phone box. She opened the door and the metallic tang of urine made her bring her hand up to cover her nose in a visceral reaction.
‘Even there and back it can’t be more than three or four minutes,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘And that’s including whatever she had to say. And you reckon that even though she was worried about her friend, Lavinia still went back to Mac’s and just carried on dancing? Drunk folks. Besides, what else could she do? I mean Rose was gone. She didn’t know where. She was with a fella. Why not? It’d take her mind off it.’
They made their way back to Windmill Street and stopped once more outside the door of Mac’s.
‘You wanna look inside?’ Charlie offered. Vesta smiled gratefully. ‘Could I?’
‘Stay here.’ Charlie crossed the road and made for the St James Tavern on the corner where the barman kept a key. Vesta shifted from foot to foot. Windmill Street seemed so ordinary it was difficult for her to accept that anything momentous had happened here, not least that this was the last place anyone had seen Rose alive. She tried to picture Lindon being given the gold cigarette case in the street and the discussion that presumably broke out when it became apparent Rose was leaving. Her friends can’t have been pleased. How hard did they try to stop her? What were Harry and Lavinia like?
She walked to the door of the club and pushed open the brass letterbox so she could see inside. A narrow staircase covered with threadbare carpet led upwards and downwards from a tiny square hallway. On the first few steps there were boxes of tinned Spam. Vesta grimaced. She loathed Spam.
Charlie returned with the key and turned it in the lock.
‘Up?’ she checked.
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s down?’
‘I dunno. A basement?’
‘Let’s see, shall we?’
Mirabelle had impressed on Vesta the importance of being methodical, not overlooking anything, so Vesta switched on the hallway light and picked her way past the Spam down to a white door at the bottom of the stairs. She knocked. No reply. She turned the handle and discovered the door was open. Inside, there was a single blacked-out window and some old tyres and boxes covered in dust sheets. A tea chest and three upturned buckets served as a table and chairs. A couple of jam jars with the dregs of what looked like cold tea sat on the surface. A quick sniff told her that the liquid was brandy.
‘Up?’ Charlie directed.
They went back up the stairs, their bodies pushed close together by the dimensions of the staircase. Charlie produced a second key to unlock the room, which it transpired was painted black from floor to ceiling. There were a few dusty footprints, some wooden chairs and two music stands. Against the back wall there was an upright piano with its strings exposed.
‘It’s nothing fancy,’ Charlie said. ‘People just come here to jam. It’s experimental, you know. An experience.’
Vesta nodded.
She walked slowly around the space to get a feel for it. This, after all, was the last place anyone had seen Rose and, apart from Victoria, the last place in London she could say Lindon had been seen for sure that night. It sent a shiver down her spine.
Charlie crossed to the piano and played a few bars. ‘Heard that before? It’s Bill Evans. I saw him in New York last year. Wild! I’ve been into music since I was a kid but the sound is changing. Everything’s changing. I ain’t Max Roach but it’s exciting – just being part of it.’
He walked over and took Vesta in his arms. ‘Dance with me.’
‘There’s no music.’
‘We got music inside us, sister. Come on.’
He turned her around the floor a couple of times, leading the way till they came to a natural halt. He didn’t let go.
Instead, Charlie bent over and kissed Vesta. She didn’t usually condone that kind of behaviour, but this time her knees felt as if they were going to buckle. Without any thought she let herself go and kissed him back, then whispered, ‘You’re fresh.’
‘Can you blame me, sugar?’
Vesta struggled to recover her poise. She pulled back and smoothed her clothes, regarding Charlie carefully. Her cheeks felt hot.
‘So where do you want to go now, Miss Vesta?’ he smiled.
‘Your boss?’
‘Her name’s Mirabelle. I was to meet her later at Duke’s. We could wait in the bar.’
‘A lady boss. Cool. Let’s go to Duke’s then. I like the sound of that.’
Charlie ushered Vesta out of Mac’s. He took her hand as they made their way carefully downstairs. Her heart was still pounding.
‘I’ve got to give the key back. Wait for me.’
Vesta rested against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. It was an opportunity to steady herself.
‘Charlie, is this where the bouncer was?’ she asked.
‘Barney? Some of the time. Other times he’d be upstairs in the doorway. He moves around, you know, checking on things. I always say they don’t need a bouncer at Mac’s. I mean, it ain’t as if it’s busy. But they always got someone just to keep an eye on the place.’
‘So from down here Barney would have seen what went on in the street?’
‘Yeah. He did see. He told the police, remember?’
‘And according to Tombo he took Lindon’s sax …’
‘Yeah. I dunno where he put it though. Coulda stashed it for him to pick up here – downstairs or something. I guess he might have left it behind the bar at the pub – they hold the key, why not a saxophone?’
‘But Lindon picked it up that night. He came back for it.’
‘If he had it with him in the morning he must’ve.’
Vesta couldn’t concentrate. Charlie’s presence was too intoxicating. She was finding it difficult to tear her eyes from him.
‘Last night I had a martini in the hotel,’ she said. ‘They make the best cocktails in London. That’s what I heard and it tasted that way, too.’
‘Well, let’s get over there, baby,’ Charlie grinned. ‘It’s time for some fun. Come on.’
Chapter 21
An ill thought leaves a trail like a serpent.
Mirabelle composed herself and formulated a plan as she powdered her nose. If Harry was somehow involved in Rose’s disappearance she needed proof, but her instincts told her she should keep as far away as she could for as long as possible. She wanted to observe him until she had the measure of the boy. Potentially he was very dangerous, like a cocked gun brandished by a four-year-old.
Where had he gone to get his drink? Leaving her jacket in the Sitting Room, she checked the hallway before venturing out. Keeping out of sight, she peeked into the Coffee Room. Two elderly gentlemen sat, in silence, eating cheese and drinking port. The old duffers had probably known each other all their lives, she thought, yet they still sat at different tables. Mirabelle tiptoed further up the hallway until she came to the Library. Without opening the door she could hear voices. She listened, and relaxed slightly as she recognised Harry’s clipped tones – at least now she knew where he was. Inside, the boy was holding forth. Female laughter punctuated his anecdote of an acquaintance who had a boxing blue which had served him well out of the ring. It was a tale of bravado to make a teenage boy feel good.
‘“There’s three of them. This might keep me a little busy,” he said. We were on the bridge and there was no one else around, so I got my jacket off and thought I’d lend a hand. Took us a couple of minutes but we got there. Landed one of them in the drink, too. Cheek of it! Saying that about Lolly’s mother! Quite a giggle, really.’
One of the girls clearly had a brain. ‘It’s awfully brave of you to be amusing us like this, Harry,’ she said. ‘However, are you keeping your spirits up? I mean, Rose is missing and you’re just soldiering on. It must be so vexing. What do you think has happened to her? Is there absolutely no news?’
There was only a moment’s hesitation.
‘The police have been marvellous,’ Harry enthused convincingly. ‘They’ll bring her back, I’m sure of it.’
A second female voice cut in. ‘For heaven’s sake, Lucy! Must you be so ghoulish? We all hope poor Rose is all right but best not dwell on the thing. There’s nothing any of us can do and it doesn’t do Harry any good at all. Does it, Harry?’
‘Here, here.’ Glasses clinked.
‘What are you planning for the break?’ Harry asked.
‘Harry! Hilary term has only just started!’
‘Paris,’ said the second female voice. ‘We always go to France for Easter – I have an uncle there. I can’t wait. Paris is so charming, n’est-ce pas?’
Satisfied the female company would keep Harry busy for a while – at least until he’d had another drink or two – Mirabelle decided to investigate his territory further.
Feeling more confident, she picked up her jacket from the Sitting Room, and walked back through the hallway and out of the front door onto Pall Mall, trying to work out the configuration of the buildings as she made for the end of the street. Glancing left towards Marlborough House she dismissed anything in that direction and continued on, crossing the road. To her right was a narrow passageway between two tall buildings. Mirabelle looked up to see if she might recognise the line of the roof and sure enough the back of Spencer House proved familiar as the alley opened onto a cobblestoned mews. This must be the place. However, none of the garages appeared to have a sign indicating they were in use by the Oxford and Cambridge Club. As she walked up the right-hand side she struck lucky. Through an open door she could see on the wall next to the door a sign instructing drivers to restrict their speed to 5 mph and another that read strictly private. members’ vehicles only. Mirabelle smiled at the correct use of the apostrophe.
The garage had a higher ceiling and was less cramped than she expected – perhaps a throwback to the days when it housed horse-drawn carriages. It was pitch-black inside. A good sign, thought Mirabelle. It meant no one was here. She felt in her clutch bag for some matches and was thankful she had picked up a book at Feldman’s as a memento. She struck one and quickly located the electric switch on the side wall. Once the place was lit – albeit dimly, by a solitary grimy lightbulb – she could see the garage was large and extremely well appointed. There was a proper servicing pit and a wall-mounted toolbox. Most of the space was taken up with parking spaces, with only a quarter of them occupied. It wasn’t difficult to locate the Aston Martin, which was parked right next to the servicing pit where Miles must have been working. It was green.
Her heart rate accelerated as she tentatively tried the car door. It was open. She slid into the driving seat. Inside, everything was ship-shape and there was a faint, rather pleasant smell of leather and engine oil. She clicked open the glove compartment. Predictably, Harry had stowed a silver hipflask inside – brandy, Mirabelle concluded after unscrewing it. It sat on top of some papers and a half-empty packet of cigarettes. The boy was eighteen going on thirty! Mirabelle flicked through the papers: car registration documents, a handbook and some letters addressed to Harry at a house on Wilton Crescent. They predated Rose’s disappearance and were purely social but they confirmed his family’s address. Harry, like Rose, had been a neighbour of the Blyths in town. They certainly were a cosy bunch. The houses on Wilton Crescent, if Mirabelle remembered correctly, were very grand and only a couple of blocks from Upper Belgrave Street. Harry no doubt stayed at the club so he could indulge his predilections to the full. It would prove a lot trickier trying to sneak a black jazz singer past long-time retainers in the family home.
Mirabelle slid out of the car and tried the boot. Inside were a heavy blue waxed jacket and a torch. She checked the jacket; in the poacher’s pouch there was a parcel wrapped in brown paper. The loose paper had been tied with string. Removing her gloves, she carefully unpicked the knot and put aside the crush of white tissue paper that covered the parcel’s contents. What she saw made her gasp. She quickly looked over her shoulder as if someone might have seen. Hairs all over her body prickled and she felt a lu
rch of nausea. Rolled up tightly, but unmistakable, was a yellow evening dress with a delicate silver thread running through the fabric. She pulled it out and let the gown hang from the shoulder straps. Rose must be tiny. The dress had a waist of no more than twenty-two inches. The material at the front was slightly dirty and smelled of cigarette smoke with an underlying vinegary tang, perhaps the trace of perfume. Mirabelle ran her hands down the seams. Sure enough, the hem was ragged. It had been torn up to the knee on the left side. No wonder Harry wanted to avoid the police.
Mirabelle’s mind raced. What had the boy done to his cousin and how had he done it? His alibi for the night she had disappeared had seemed so unassailable the police had scarcely interviewed him. To accomplish that he’d need accomplices – more than one, certainly. She turned over the possibilities, her mind racing so fast that she couldn’t properly analyse each thought. Was this child a murderer?
That moment, she heard feet on the cobbles outside and male voices. Mirabelle scrambled to return the dress to the package. The material kept spilling out of the paper and was making what felt like a deafening noise as she shoved it back into the jacket pocket.
She closed the car boot and frantically looked for somewhere to hide. There was no time to switch off the light but perhaps one of the other cars would conceal her. The far reaches of the garage were dark. In her panic she twisted an ankle as she tried to run towards the nearest wall where a large black Ford had been parked out of the way. In her rush, she fell headlong into the car inspection pit, managing to break her fall with an outstretched hand. She felt no pain but Mirabelle knew that was due purely to adrenaline. Her heart was racing uncontrollably. Deciding it was best to stay put as the voices came closer, she pulled herself into the corner of the pit closest to the Aston. The light was poor, and as she couldn’t see the green car or any of the area around it, if the men stayed by the vehicle, they wouldn’t be able to see her either.
Mirabelle froze as she recognised Harry’s distinctive voice. He was playing with his car keys, Singing them into the air and catching them. Then she heard Miles open the car door so the boy could get in. Mirabelle tried to slow her breathing. Her senses were on fire and she was sure that from here, she could actually smell the men.