Playing with Fire

by Patricia Hall

  ‘You’re forgetting we have a party to go to tonight,’ Dave said, his expression determined. ‘I’m not going to miss that.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to bother?’ Kate asked but she could see from Donovan’s face that he had no intention of missing Jason Destry’s housewarming, obviously looking forward to the name-dropping he could indulge in on Merseyside as some consolation for being dumped – if that is what had happened – by his girlfriend. Kate gave Tess a despairing look knowing that meant he would want to stay another night on the sofa.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and see if Marie’s made any contact with Jack Mansfield. He was supposed to have some news for her so maybe she got in touch in the end. If she was going to talk to anyone it would have to be him. It’s worth checking.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Donovan said with the expression of a sulky toddler denied another ice cream which would probably make him sick.

  ‘Give me ten minutes,’ Kate said and, seeing the desperation in Tess’s eyes, she was even faster than that. If she wasn’t careful Dave’s unwelcome presence would end a friendship which had lasted since she and Tess had been at college together and she did not see why she should be punished in that way over Dave Donovan’s bad luck with women. Her own experience with him had shown her just how pig-headed he could be.

  Barely speaking to each other, they took the Tube into the West End and by ten o’clock they had arrived at the now-familiar office in Denmark Street which Kate was relieved to find had lights on even on a Saturday morning.

  ‘Someone’s in,’ she said, pushing open the door and setting off up the narrow stairs.

  ‘Right,’ Donovan said ominously and followed, but when they reached Mansfield’s agency and pushed open the door, the receptionist’s chair was empty.

  ‘Someone’s in the other office,’ Kate said, aware of a voice she took to be the agent’s beyond the frosted glass in the door. Donovan banged impatiently at the door and pushed it open to find Mansfield at his desk. He spun towards them and looked distinctly unwelcoming as he put his hand over the telephone receiver he was holding.

  ‘You again,’ he said. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘The same thing we wanted the last time,’ Donovan said, pushing in front of Kate. ‘Is there any sign of Marie – Ellie, you’re calling her – since we were here last? Did she get back to you to talk about her showreel? Did someone really like her stuff? She’ll be made up if that’s true. She’s not likely to miss her chance.’

  ‘Wait outside a minute while I finish this call,’ Mansfield said reluctantly, though it was much more than a minute he took, and Mansfield was shouting down the phone and Donovan was becoming distinctly agitated on the landing outside before the agent finally opened his office door again and called them back in.

  ‘So what’s going on, whack?’ Donovan said, not hiding his anger. ‘Where the hell’s my girl? You say you saw her and no one else has seen her since. I reckon the bizzies will be interested in that, don’t you? Girls can’t come to London and then just vanish into thin air, can they? That’s no kind of a carry-on.’

  Kate put a hand on Donovan’s shoulder in the hope of calming him down as Mansfield’s already flushed features reddened into an expression of fury.

  ‘I’m not responsible for what these little slappers do in their own time,’ he said. ‘I listen to their music and tell them more often than not that it’s rubbish and they go off to bend some other sodding agent’s ear. But I didn’t with this one – Ellie, Marie, whatever you want to call her – I told her she had potential and in the end I found a record label which agreed with me. She’s the one who’s sold us short, disappeared on us, so I look like a fool and the label won’t bother to put my tape on the machine another time. If the artistes behave like that we all lose in the end.’

  ‘So you’ve still not heard from her, Mr Mansfield?’ Kate asked, trying to calm the discussion down.

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, girl,’ he shot back.

  ‘Then I think we really do need to report her missing to the police. Don’t you think so, Dave? It’s been too long?’

  Donovan turned away from Mansfield with a look of pure despair. ‘OK,’ he said, his shoulders slumped. ‘Let’s do that.’

  They left Mansfield delving into his desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of Scotch and pouring himself a serious glassful as they closed his office door behind them. The secretary’s place was still empty but as they retreated down the scruffy staircase the girl who had been at the desk the last time they had been here met them halfway up.

  ‘You again?’ she said. ‘Haven’t you found Ellie Fox yet then?’

  ‘No sign of her,’ Kate said.

  ‘She’s probably decided it’s easier to be a groupie than a singer, you get all the benefits of being one of the gang and none of the hard work. Unless you count taking your knickers off as hard work.’

  ‘She’s not a slapper,’ Donovan said angrily. ‘She was – is – ambitious. She wants to sing.’

  ‘But how long would it take her to earn what one of the big groups like the Kinks or the Rainbirds are earning on her own? I did hear that Jason Destry puts himself about a bit. And some of his group are from Liverpool. Maybe she’s joined Jason’s big happy family.’

  Donovan pushed past the two women and stormed out of the door into Denmark Street.

  ‘He’s in love,’ Kate said with a grin, and followed him out.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’ll go to Destry’s party tonight and ask around. And if we don’t have any luck there we’ll report her missing to the police. I’ll talk to Harry later and see what he thinks. But we’ll have to take Destry up on his offer of a lift to his place. It’s somewhere way out in the country. We’ll need to check it out. Is that a plan? Kevin gave me a phone number to ask where the car is going from. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Donovan said.

  In the event it turned out that Barnard’s place by the window in the Blue Lagoon gave him a ringside view of the passers-by who had not been deterred by the area’s rapidly sinking reputation and the heavy policing by uniformed officers, and it wasn’t long before he spotted Vince Beaufort walking smartly in the direction of Soho Square. He tapped on the window to attract his attention. Vincent spun towards him with unexpected nervousness and only relaxed slightly when he had peered through the glass and recognized the sergeant. He raised his hand in greeting and, after looking up and down the street, carefully pushed open the door.

  ‘Flash,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here on a Saturday morning?’

  ‘Trying to track down anyone who knows what’s going on at the Delilah these days,’ he said, glancing around the half-empty cafe and deciding it was impossible for anyone to overhear them with the coffee machine hissing vigorously.

  ‘Really?’ Beaufort said. ‘It’s a bit of a mystery, that place. People keep saying that Ray Robertson is still in charge but there’s not much sign of it. It’s getting very rundown. And now he’s got competition from the new club just round the corner, that’s pulling in a different class of punters with plenty of money to spend.’

  ‘So I hear,’ Barnard agreed. ‘It’s a cut above the Delilah in some ways but what’s really the big attraction? Rock stars drinking there?’

  Beaufort gave him a sideways look. ‘They’re not letting the young kids in any more, evidently, apart from the poor girl who fell out of the window. So it’s what the rock stars get up to more likely,’ he said.

  ‘Drugs?’ Barnard asked quietly, and Beaufort gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘Drugs and girls. You’re not surprised, are you?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Barnard said. ‘The level of violence and intimidation that’s going on has to be motivated by something substantial. There’ve been three deaths now, if you include the kid at the Late Supper Club. Someone’s looking for a very big profit out of Soho that they’re not getting at the moment. It can only be drugs, but I
need some evidence and nobody is talking to me.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Evie,’ Beaufort said. ‘But you can’t be surprised no one will talk. It’s as if these bastards are fastening on to every group, one by one, so everyone knows someone who’s been hurt or threatened. Nobody’s feeling safe. It’s like the Italian Mafia. They take over whole villages and towns …’

  Barnard froze. ‘How come you know so much about the Mafia?’ he asked.

  Beaufort shrugged. ‘My mother was Italian,’ he said. ‘From the south.’

  ‘So, what about that tall, dark fellow you told me about who’s suddenly appeared on the scene? Could he be Italian?’

  ‘Minelli? He’s dark enough, and the name’s Italian,’ Vince agreed. ‘But what about the other face I told you about that I hadn’t seen before? I’ve noticed he’s been chatting your girlfriend up once or twice. Here in the Blue Lagoon, as it happens. You’d better ask her who he is. He looked quite attentive.’ Beaufort gave Barnard a not very sympathetic smile as he got up to go. ‘You’re not making any progress on the Grenadier murder then? Len Stevenson was a good man. And poor Evie. What did she do to deserve that?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Barnard said irritably, knowing that the attackers descended on innocent people like an armed platoon and withdrew just as quickly and anonymously, leaving no evidence of the slightest significance behind. Unless the police had information in advance there was very little chance of their being caught at all, least of all red-handed, and Soho would slide into a lawless jungle like parts of New York.

  He watched Vincent Beaufort slide effortlessly back into the slowly increasing number of strollers drifting between the pubs and cafes and sex traders outside on the street as business began to pick up as the day went on, and decided that if there was to be any breakthrough on these cases which could conceivably make a difference for him on Monday morning, he would have to be more proactive. He finished his coffee and made his way to an unfashionable pub on the corner of a narrow mews close to Berwick Street Market, which drew in the punters from all over London looking for exotic food and drink that had not yet percolated to the suburbs, but which provided the staples for the disciples of Elizabeth David’s popular Continental cookery books. His quarry, Joe Inglot, was sitting at a corner table with a couple of fellow drinkers who could have been his brothers or cousins so similar were they with their dark-eyed and sallow-skinned Mediterranean looks. Inglot looked up when Barnard walked in and did not look pleased to see him.

  ‘A word, Joe,’ Barnard said in a tone which did not leave any room at all for his quarry to argue. ‘Outside, if you like.’

  Inglot extricated himself with a scowl from the group and followed Barnard on to the pavement outside the pub where waste vegetables were strewn in the gutter.

  ‘You will get me into bad trouble, Sergeant Barnard, if people think I am in your pocket.’

  ‘In this case it won’t damage your reputation, Joe, if you reckon you’ve got one, which I doubt. I want you to take a message to your boss.’

  ‘The Man?’ Inglot did not look the least bit reassured by that explanation.

  ‘Your man, Falzon,’ Barnard said. ‘I need to talk to him. Can you pass that on? And get back to me as soon as you can? But not at the nick. I’ll give you a phone number where you – or he – can contact me this evening. Tell him it’s in his interests. A brief word, is all.’

  Inglot was staring at Barnard as if mesmerized, but in the end he jerked his head in what Barnard took to be consent and took the piece of paper on which he had written down his home number. Barnard knew he was taking what was probably a ludicrous risk, but he could see no alternative. If something did not change soon there would be no justice for the murdered barman Len Stevenson, or for the nameless teenager who had fallen from the top window of the Late Supper Club, or for his old friend and former lover Evie, who had been viciously beaten and stabbed and dumped to die in a back alley apparently to encourage the other girls to do as they were told. If that was the future then he thought he might as well resign now as wait for DCI Jackson to sack him because the game was no longer worth the candle.

  He turned back towards the busier streets, telling himself that what he was doing was no more than he used to do when times were more normal and violence sporadic but far less aggressive than the tactics being used by the marauding gangs who now seemed to want to take over the streets and businesses of Soho completely. Whoever was coordinating the campaign seemed to be using random murder as a weapon, and that Barnard had never seen before.

  Approaching the Delilah, he abruptly slowed down and half turned to study the window display of a bookshop which he knew concealed its more blatant pornography underneath the counter. Ahead of him he recognized the tall, black-clad figure of the man people called Minelli pushing open the doors of the club and making his way inside. Barnard’s first instinct was to follow him and take him by surprise, but he decided it might be more useful to tackle whoever he had gone inside to talk to, most likely the manager Derek Baker, who would not be too surprised that he was following up on his earlier inquiries about Ray Robertson’s whereabouts. He took refuge in a cafe opposite the club, ordered yet more coffee and took a seat where he could watch the club doors easily.

  He did not have to wait long. Minelli left the Delilah no more than ten minutes after he went in, and Barnard was through the doors almost before they had stopped swinging. He found Baker sitting close to the bar with a whisky on the table in front of him and a phone clamped to his ear. He was obviously annoyed to see Barnard and hung up quickly.

  ‘What the hell do you want, Sergeant?’ he asked incautiously.

  Barnard took the chair across the table from him. ‘I happened to see Mr Minelli coming out a few minutes ago and wondered what he was doing here. He seems to be putting himself about a lot at the moment and I wondered if he was working for Ray Robertson. Would that be a good guess?’

  ‘It would be about as far from the truth as you’re likely to get,’ Baker said angrily.

  ‘So can you tell me why he was here?’

  ‘I think that’s none of your business,’ Baker said. ‘But he wanted to discuss something with Mr Robertson and I had to tell him that’s not likely to happen any time soon. Mr Robertson’s mother has just died and I don’t think he is likely to want to be discussing business propositions until after the funeral.’

  ‘Aah,’ Barnard said, ‘I knew she was very ill in hospital.’

  ‘Did you? That’s more than I did. But then I’m just a dogsbody round here.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Barnard said with a wry smile. ‘I’ll send your boss a sympathy card.’ But he knew he wouldn’t, not least because he had not a clue where the elusive Ray Robertson was staying and while his solicitor probably did he would not be available on a Saturday morning. More to the point, even if he tracked him down the solicitor would be very likely to complain to the DCI or even to Scotland Yard about such an uncalled-for request.

  He left Derek Baker refilling his whisky glass behind the bar and decided that now he had breached the defences of one club he might as well try another, especially as he recalled that Kate had seen Minelli looking quite at home having a meal at the Late Supper Club. It was a short walk down Old Compton Street to the new club and again Barnard was slightly surprised to find the club which he knew did not swing into action until relatively late in the evening already had its outer door open on to the street. He went up the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door into the reception area where to his surprise he found Hugh Mercer deep in what looked like a perfectly amicable discussion with Minelli himself. Both men turned in his direction with what could only be described as deeply unfriendly expressions.

  ‘Sergeant Barnard,’ Mercer said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was just going over my notes last night and there were one or two supplementary questions I found that I need to ask you, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ Mercer sa
id with every appearance of disbelief. ‘They must be important if you’ve taken the trouble to come round on a Saturday?’

  ‘I happened to be passing,’ Barnard lied. He glanced directly at Minelli and nodded in recognition. ‘We seem to be following each other from club to club. Are you in the entertainment trade as well, sir? You must be as worried as most people in Soho at the crime wave we seem to be experiencing.’

  ‘I am sure the Metropolitan Police will sort it out,’ Minelli said with an accent which Barnard identified immediately as Italian with a superficial overlay of East London. But it was distinctive and he was sure that if it had to be identified by witnesses it could be. But Minelli was obviously anxious to leave. He and Mercer shook hands and the visitor spun on his heel and hurried down the stairs to the street door without looking back.

  ‘So what are these questions, Sergeant?’ Mercer snapped. ‘Could they not have waited until Monday? You haven’t identified the dead girl, have you?’

  ‘I’m a bit preoccupied on Monday, sir,’ Barnard said. ‘But one of your clients who was here the night the girl fell said she saw a small bag on a chair for some time that night – flowery satin, she said it was, mainly pink and slightly childish in style, she thought, given your clientele. She wondered if it had been found later and could belong to the girl who it’s been suggested could have been called Jackie.’

  ‘Jackie?’ Mercer said. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘One of Jason Destry’s friends,’ Barnard said flatly. ‘I’ve also been told that the girl spent some time with him and his colleagues – musicians, essentially …’

  ‘This all sounds like hearsay if not pure fantasy to me, Sergeant, don’t you think?’ Mercer snapped back.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Barnard said. ‘Somebody must have brought the girl in and I’ve no evidence on which to rule out Destry and his friends. Do you?’

  ‘Do I what? Have evidence? No, of course I don’t. If I had any clue who the girl was or who brought her in I would have told you days ago.’

  ‘Right,’ Barnard said, although the more Mercer protested innocence the less inclined he was to believe him. He was sure that any self-respecting and even barely competent club manager in Soho would have made it his business to find out for himself how such a devastating breach of security had happened, even if only to protect his licence from close scrutiny by the magistrates.