The two senior officers made their way to the squad room door but as DCI Jackson followed DI Jamieson out he glanced back. ‘My office, Barnard,’ he said over his shoulder.
Barnard drew a sharp breath. ‘Sir,’ he said, and followed his boss down the corridor as Jamieson peeled off and took the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time. The look in Jackson’s eyes spelled nothing but trouble and Barnard was sure it wasn’t just because he had been late for the meeting. The DCI placed his papers meticulously in the centre of his desk, squared them off neatly and sat down.
‘The first thing which happened to me this morning – before I’d even finished my porridge – was a call from the Yard, Sergeant. Someone – they didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me who the complainant was – had objected to your inquiries last night at the Late Supper Club, which I had to admit that I knew nothing about as you didn’t bother to tell me you were going there. But from the general tenor of the complaints, I guess it must have been the manager – what’s his name? Mercer? Captain Mercer, he was calling himself, so I suppose someone at the Yard knows him and he’s taking advantage of his contacts. What is going on? I thought I told you we were concentrating on the murder at the Grenadier. You know the barman didn’t regain consciousness before he died? This is now murder and murder with all sorts of implications for Soho which you must be aware of.’
‘Yes, guv, I know. I was with DI Watson at the pub until well after seven. He reckoned that some of the regulars who hadn’t heard what had happened might turn up and we could pick up some useful background. Personally I thought he didn’t know how efficient the grapevine is among that clientele. I reckoned they would already know enough to stay away. In the event, one or two arrived and found the place closed but we didn’t get much that was useful out of them when we hauled them in. They were people who hadn’t actually heard anything about the attack. If they had I guess they wouldn’t have turned up either. DI Watson decided to call it a day before eight but as I was passing by the Late Supper Club on my way back to the car I thought I might see if I could pick up anything useful there. I was on my own time, guv.’
‘And did you? Pick up anything useful?’
‘Not really, except that the latest rock idol, Jason Destry – he’s the one in the red velvet coat – was in there that night, but according to Mercer not for long, and he left before the girl fell.’
‘Is he another pervert?’ Jackson asked, not hiding his distaste for the red velvet.
‘I’ve no idea, guv, but the little girls seem to love him anyway.’
‘So is there any progress on the dead girl’s identity that I don’t know about?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Barnard admitted reluctantly. ‘I was passing last night and thought it might be worthwhile chatting up some of the staff there. Some were already on duty. That’s all.’
‘It’s a waste of time and energy, Sergeant,’ the DCI said. ‘And it’s causing upset and nuisance at the club for no useful purpose. Do you not understand? Our priority is to find out who trashed the queer pub and killed the barman Stevenson. That’s what the Yard wants, that’s what the new drug squad, when it eventually gets itself off the ground, will want because they’re sure drugs are involved in this. And that’s what I want too. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Barnard said. ‘Quite clear.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you want me to keep looking at the missing person reports, guv, for the girl who died?’
Jackson took a moment to reply. ‘Ask uniform to do that. We’ve got more than enough to do in Soho without worrying about what’s a suicide or a drunken accident and without even the name of a victim. You concentrate on your own patch and find out who’s behind this outbreak of violence there. That’s what you are supposed to know about. I’m still not convinced Ray Robertson’s not behind what’s going on. Maybe he thinks he’s been away long enough now and needs to make a big comeback to re-establish himself. Isn’t that a likely scenario? They always had a foot in two camps, the brothers. Well, that’s over now. It may be Georgie who’s locked up but Ray’s credibility is gone too with all his glamorous friends. No more black-tie events at the Delilah Club; no more lords and ladies accepting invitations to boxing galas. That’s all finished. If he wants a role again it’s going to have to be a criminal one. The other doors are tight shut. I’ll talk to DI Watson and tell him I’d like you to find out where he is and what he’s doing. And don’t tell me he’s the gangster with the heart of gold, no drugs, no toms, helps old ladies across Whitechapel High Street out of the goodness of his heart because I don’t believe a word of it. He’s as bad as his brother, just a wee bit smarter, and it’s time he was behind bars. Do you understand me, Sergeant Barnard? Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, guv,’ Barnard said. ‘I’ll get on to it.’
Kate was still in the office without an assignment when the phone call came.
‘Is that Kate O’Donnell?’ It was a man’s voice which sounded as if he was standing at the Pier Head gazing across the Mersey with the wind behind him. For a moment, the accent sent a tremor of homesickness through Kate’s chest – but only for a moment.
‘Who’s that, la?’ she asked.
‘Kevin Dunne. You left a message for me.’
‘I did,’ Kate said. ‘I thought you might be able to help. I’m looking for a Scouser called Marie Collins who’s come down to London to try to break into the music business, though her manager has decided to call her Ellie Fox, so she may be using that name. She’s a singer and her boyfriend hasn’t heard from her for weeks. He’s dead worried.’
‘Who’s the boyfriend? Do I know him?’
‘I think so,’ Kate said. ‘He seems to know you. It’s Dave Donovan.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Kevin said without much enthusiasm. ‘I do remember him, la. Didn’t think much of his group, to be honest. I wasn’t surprised when he scuttled back home with his tail between his legs.’
‘You don’t need to be his best mate,’ Kate said irritably. ‘I only want to know if you’ve seen this girl around the scene. Have you come across her at all?’
There was a silence at the other end of the line. ‘I don’t think so,’ Dunne said. ‘Are you sure this Marie hasn’t just dumped him?’
‘She could have done, I suppose, but he’s coming down to London for a few days to look for her, so I thought if I could track her down it would help.’
‘Where are you? Do you fancy a bite to eat? The band’s meeting at our manager’s office to sign some stuff at twelve but I could buy you a drink and a bite after that. What do you say? I could ask Pete as well. He plays drums and comes from Southport. They’re giving him a trial.’
‘Great,’ Kate said. ‘What time?’ And she agreed to meet him at the Charlotte Street office of the Rainbirds’ manager at one.
This time she waited outside and soon after the hour five young men came hustling out of the door. She immediately recognized Jason Destry even without the signature red velvet jacket he had abandoned today in favour of a dark duffel coat which Kate supposed was some sort of disguise. Young girls were not yet swarming after the Rainbirds like they did for the more established groups, but she guessed that was almost certainly coming down the road fast.
Even so, Destry hesitated for a moment and gave Kate a nod. ‘Are you waiting for me, pet?’ he asked.
‘No, for Kevin,’ she said.
‘Shame,’ Jason Destry said. ‘Lucky Kevin, though I can tell you’re from his neck of the woods by the accent. Is there something in that Mersey water that produces so many musicians?’
‘Must be in their mammy’s milk; Mersey water’s pretty mucky,’ Kate said and Destry laughed.
‘Get Kevin to bring you to my next party,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this new house out in Surrey. You’d have a good time, I promise.’
‘You’ll have to tell me how to get there,’ she said.
‘Come with Kevin. He knows the way,’ Destry said. ‘Next Saturday night? OK?’
‘OK,’ Kate said, feeling slightly breathless and wondering what Barnard would make of an invitation in which she guessed he would not be included. The last members of the band out of the door were definitely looking for someone, she realized, and she stepped forward with a smile.
‘Kevin?’ she asked. ‘I’m Kate O’Donnell.’
‘So you must be, la,’ the shorter, darker of the two said with a grin. ‘A bobby-dazzler like you could only come from the Pool.’ He waved a hand towards his companion. ‘This is Pete Jones. Plays drums in a Liverpool band and is down for an audition with Jason Destry.’
‘Right,’ Kate said as the other three musicians turned away and hurried towards Oxford Street where they hailed a taxi. ‘It’s good of you to spare the time. Dave can’t understand what’s going on.’
‘Who did you say her manager was?’ Jones asked.
‘Jack Mansfield,’ Kate said.
‘I know him,’ Jones said. ‘I came down here six months ago and did a trawl round the managers because Brian Epstein wasn’t taking people on in Liverpool any more. He was too tied up with the so-called Fab Four and all the touring they’d been doing.’
‘That’s why Marie came to London, apparently,’ Kate said. ‘She thought he didn’t want any more girls once he’d taken Cilla Black on. Anyway, when I went back to Mr Mansfield to find out who your manager was he said he had eventually had some interest in Marie Collins’ songs so there’s another reason to track her down if I can, not just poor old lovelorn Dave Donovan who she may not be very interested in any more. She might actually stand a chance of making a record after all.’
‘What did you say her recording name was?’ Kevin Dunne asked as he guided Kate into a scruffy-looking pub called the Three Horseshoes she had never noticed before down one of the narrow side alleys which linked Soho’s main streets and which themselves linked Oxford Street, with its department stores, to Leicester Square and Theatreland.
‘Ellie Fox,’ Kate said, glancing round the almost empty bar. Harry Barnard always said his patch was no more than a square mile and even in these out-of-the-way corners she reckoned there was very little that escaped his notice. He would know this place and its reputation, which she could not imagine was very high.
‘Ellie Fox: can’t say I’ve heard of her,’ Dunne said. ‘Have you, Pete?’
‘Don’t think so,’ the drummer said. ‘What are you drinking, Kate?’
‘Just a half of shandy.’ She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I have to be back at work in about half an hour and I don’t want to breathe too many fumes over the blokes in the office. They’re easily shocked. They haven’t got used to the idea of a woman with a camera yet. They twitch every time I walk through the door or demand some time in the dark room.’
‘Like rock music doesn’t do girls on guitars?’ Kevin said. ‘Vocals the lads can just about get their heads round, maybe. We’ll have to see whether Marie gets shunted back to Liverpool like Dave Donovan did.’
‘Is he easy with it?’ Pete asked. ‘He won’t get jealous if she makes the big time? Maybe our Cilla is easing the way. Her bloke seems to put up with playing second fiddle pretty well.’
Kate took her shandy from Pete Jones who had a plate of fairly desiccated sandwiches in his other hand.
‘Sorry, Jason said to keep a low profile,’ he said, waving the plate in Kate’s direction. For want of any alternative she took one and nibbled it cautiously.
‘He thinks the new record will be a big hit and he’s worried about the fans,’ Pete went on. ‘He didn’t really want to come into London this morning. He’s so made up with the new house he’s planning a house-warming party for the weekend.’
‘He invited me,’ Kate said with a grin. ‘Said you could show me the way, Kevin.’
Kevin looked slightly surprised at that suggestion but Pete nodded cheerfully.
‘I’m sure we could manage that,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a phone number if you really want to go. It’s an amazing house though it’s not finished yet. The builders are still all over the place.’
‘Yeah, anyway, our manager insisted we come in today, said there was stuff we all had to sign. So here we are and I’m bloody starving.’ For a few minutes they worked their way through the ham and cheese and slabs of dry bread but none of them were impressed with their Soho lunch and were already getting ready to leave when a tremendous crash startled them. Shards of broken glass fell around their table.
‘Holy Mother,’ Kevin Dunne said, but that was all any of the three of them had time to say before four or five men, with scarves pulled up to their eyes, burst into the bar, turning over tables and chairs, pushing the few customers into the corner close to the toilets and throwing drinks across the counter where the barman had been reading the Daily Express moments before but now cowered close to the floor with his arms protectively over his head.
‘Tell your boss that no is not an option. Understand?’ the scarved man closest to the bar shouted. The barman was visibly shaking and did not reply until the burliest of the five intruders jumped over the counter and grabbed him by his collar, pulled him to his feet and pushed his face into the mess of spilled alcohol and broken glass on the bar counter.
‘Are you listening to me? Did you hear me, mate?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ the barman said as blood mingled with the spilt beer.
‘If he can’t afford it tell him to put his prices up. All right? So you pass it on, yeah?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ the barman said again more faintly. The intruder vaulted back and all five men had disappeared through the smashed door and away into the lunchtime crowds before the terrified punters in the pub could draw breath.
Kate went over to the barman, who was bleeding heavily from cuts around his face and head.
‘There’s a phone there. You’d better call the police and an ambulance,’ she said to Kevin Dunne, who licked dry lips and picked up the receiver with a shaking hand.
‘This is worse than Scottie Road on a Saturday night,’ he said. ‘And in broad daylight. Lunchtime. Jesus wept.’
By the time Kevin put the phone down Kate had made her way to the back of the bar and was trying to staunch the blood which had covered the barman’s face with not very clean tea towels that had been lying by the sink.
‘The police say to stay here,’ he said, at which the handful of other customers in the bar made a beeline for the door and disappeared into the lunchtime crowds outside. ‘They’ll want to talk to us.’
‘Get that lad round here to sit down,’ Pete said, and took one of the barman’s arms with Kate on the other side to slide him into one of the few chairs with arms which looked as if it would prop him up.
‘What’s your name?’ Kate asked him.
‘Tony,’ the barman said, taking one of the tea towels and pressing it hard against what looked like the worst of the cuts on his forehead as he began to shake uncontrollably.
‘They said an ambulance will be here in ten minutes,’ Kevin said just as a uniformed constable ran through the door and stopped dead, obviously taken by surprise at the scene of chaos which faced him. But before he could even ask what had happened he was elbowed aside by DS Barnard who, Kate reckoned, was the officer she least wanted to see. The words he clearly intended to utter died on his lips as his eyes met Kate’s and he turned away.
‘Detective Sergeant Barnard,’ he said, addressing himself to Kevin Dunne, who had wet another tea towel and was trying to clean some of the blood off Tony’s face. ‘Is anyone else hurt?’ Barnard asked as he took in the barman’s injuries. ‘Have you sent for an ambulance?’
‘Ambulance is on its way,’ Kevin said. ‘And they didn’t touch anyone else, I don’t think, though there were some other people in here who scarpered as soon as they could.’
‘Right,’ Barnard said. ‘We’ll see if we can find them later, but I’ll want you all to make statements …’
Kate suddenly found that her legs were giving way beneath her and she sat down next t
o Tony and propped herself up on the single wooden table which was still upright.
‘All right?’ Barnard asked, brushing her shoulder almost imperceptibly with his hand.
‘Just about,’ she said, feeling as if her voice was coming from the bottom of a deep well. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute.’
Barnard looked as though he wanted to say more but at that moment they heard the sound of the emergency vehicles arriving outside and the bar quickly filled with uniformed men, medical staff and police, and Barnard’s attention was wholly taken by a heavy-set, grey-haired man in plainclothes who made it obvious that he expected to be in charge.
‘Another one?’ he said angrily to Barnard. He glanced at the barman who was being attended to by the ambulancemen. ‘We’re not going to have another death, are we?’
‘I wouldn’t think so, guv, it looks like nasty cuts and bruises,’ Barnard said quietly to DI Watson. ‘Some of the punters turned tail and ran but I’ve told these three we’ll need witness statements. They saw everything that happened.’
‘And descriptions of the gang,’ Watson snapped.
‘Scarves over their faces apparently.’ Barnard shrugged. ‘We’ll be lucky to get an ID.’
‘Right, you go to the hospital with fellow-my-lad here and take his statement and push him for anything we can identify these bastards by. And get him to tell you what he knows about what the gossip is as you don’t seem to have a clue in spite of all your so-called contacts. The Yard will want chapter and verse as well as DCI Jackson. I’ll get a DC to process the witnesses here. Look sharp.’
‘Sir,’ Barnard agreed, risking no more than a quick glance at Kate, who was still sitting in her chair looking shell-shocked. Damn and blast, he muttered to himself as he turned away and pushed his way to the door. As far as he could compute there was no possibility that Watson could link him with Kate O’Donnell and that could only be for the good. But he wasn’t sure what Kate would say in the state of shock she looked to be in. He really did not want his private life the talk of the squad room at the nick and even less an open book to senior officers. He turned back for a second as he pulled the door open but he could not catch her eye and he started the walk to the hospital casualty department again in a state of some anxiety.
Playing with Fire Page 9