Kate strap-hung her way back to Notting Hill Gate on the crowded Central Line tube, and then walked slowly through the dusty streets of Victorian terraces towards the only place she could so far call home in London, and that for not much longer. Most of the houses she passed were high and shabby, with basements below pavement level and attics three or four floors up, just like the one she was living in with Marie and Tess. Very few were in a good state of repair, the woodwork was unpainted, the stucco cracked and flaking, the steps under the porticos broken down and the columns themselves sometimes looking positively dangerous. And now she looked closely she could see that many of them had rows of doorbells which seemed to indicate an unfeasibly large number of flats within, and generally those were the houses where the occasional resident going in or out seemed to be almost always black. It looked as if Harry Barnard’s analysis was accurate. She must remember to ask Marie who their landlord was.
Kate was familiar enough with black faces. Liverpool had sheltered a black community for generations, as seamen had arrived in the city from around the world and settled, mainly in Toxteth. But she could not say that she had ever really known anyone black. The communities in the city lived parallel lives, the minority almost invisible to the majority. You did not often see a dark face in the centre of Liverpool. Here, she thought, black and white lived cheek by jowl with, as far as she could tell, not too much friction, though she knew there had been riots and lads had been jailed. And she knew that the colour bar Harry Barnard had mentioned was real enough. She had seen notices on houses renting rooms which made it quite clear: no blacks, no Irish, no dogs. From an Irish family herself, they made her wince. Perhaps Marie’s flat was protected like that, she thought, since all the tenants in the house were white. She glanced at a West Indian passerby, a smartly dressed woman in a flowery hat, and felt uneasy. There was a lot more going on around here than she and her friends understood, she thought. Notting Hill’s a rough old place, Harry Barnard had said. She and her mates from the north obviously hadn’t a clue.
Just as she was about to climb the worn steps to her front door she heard a noise from the area entrance to Cecily Beauchamp’s flat and glancing down she saw the old woman herself in the doorway, gesturing in her direction imperiously.
‘Hello,’ Kate said. ‘Are you all right?’
Mrs Beauchamp beckoned again. ‘Could you spare me a moment, young lady?’ she said. ‘I’d be most grateful.’
Slightly reluctantly Kate turned down the steps and followed Cecily Beauchamp into her flat. Something must have happened, she thought, for her to be allowed over the threshold this time. The basement flat was extensive but the ceilings were low and the windows, half below ground level, let in little light, and the walls and woodwork cried out for a coat of paint. But the carpets and furnishings looked expensive and every surface – the mantelpiece, shelves and side tables, were covered in fragile looking china and glass, with an occasional piece of silver in pride of place. Mrs Beauchamp, Kate thought, must be loaded, which was nice, but if so, this was an extraordinary place for her to be living, and an open invitation to any passing thief.
Mrs Beauchamp was obviously aware of Kate’s surprised survey of her home and waved her into a chair. She was a tall, thin woman with grey hair pulled back to the nape of the neck in an old-fashioned style and with an imperious manner, but her face was finely lined and pale, the skin tight over the cheekbones, and it looked, in the poor light, that she had attempted to apply make-up but merely smudged foundation unevenly, and botched her bright lipstick. Kate wondered if her sight was failing. She waved vaguely around before sitting down close to the empty fireplace where an electric fire was turned off. The flat was cold and smelled of damp and lavender water.
‘I was only able to keep a few of my treasures,’ she said, looking around vaguely. ‘It turned out that there were a great many debts when my husband died, but I wanted to stay in London and my son and I thought this was the best solution for me. It’s not ideal, but people in reduced circumstances have little choice in these matters. And I kept the access to the garden at the back. I like that. It’s very overgrown but I can sit outside when it’s warm enough.’
‘You’re dead lucky to have so many beautiful things,’ Kate said.
Cecily Beauchamp nodded. ‘For a little while longer, anyway,’ she said. ‘And that’s why I asked you in. I wondered if you would be kind enough to take a message for me. I have arthritis and I can’t walk as I used to. You saw the other day how difficult I was finding the steps. It’s not very far. Just down to Portobello Road. I have a friend there, an antique dealer who buys and sells for me sometimes. I’d like her to come and see me when she has time. There’s something I want to discuss. If I gave you a note for her, could you deliver it?’
‘Can’t you phone her?’ Kate asked.
‘I’m afraid my phone’s out of order,’ Mrs Beauchamp mumbled, looking embarrassed, two red spots appearing on her cheeks. Which means the bill’s not been paid, Kate thought, familiar enough with the consequences of unpaid bills. This woman, with her cut-glass accent, expensive antiques and obvious poverty, was a mass of contradictions.
‘Could you take a note for me, Catherine? I’d be very grateful.’
Kate nodded. She did not want to be hooked into becoming Cecily Beauchamp’s messenger girl, but then, she thought, she was not going to be living here long enough for it to become a burden. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Can it wait till Saturday morning, though? I’ll be off to work early tomorrow.’
‘Yes, she’s certain to be there at the antique market on Saturday. That’s their busiest day. I’ll have it ready for you by about ten. Will that be convenient?’
Kate nodded. ‘I’ll call round then,’ she said.
‘What is it exactly you do, my dear?’ her hostess asked, her rheumy eyes peering at her as if to see her more clearly. ‘For a living, I mean.’
‘I’m a photographer for an agency in Soho,’ Kate said, feeling for the first time that she had a secure claim to what had been a mere ambition for so long.
Mrs Beauchamp did not hide her surprise. ‘What a very quaint job for a gel,’ she said. ‘I had my photograph taken by Cecil Beaton once, many years ago when I came out.’
‘Came out?’ Kate asked, trying not to look overawed by the Beaton name.
‘I was a debutante, presented to the Queen. You modern gels don’t know anything about those times, do you? But I don’t know where that picture is now. I’ve mislaid so many things.’ She ran a hand across her brow and for a moment Kate glimpsed a level of confusion in her eyes which alarmed her.
She stood up and pulled her jacket back on. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I’ll come round about ten on Saturday to collect your note.’
‘I’m very grateful, my dear. Such a pretty name, Catherine. It was my mother’s, you know.’
Kate got up early the next morning. She had told Tess and Marie what Harry Barnard had told her, and both had found the news unsettling. They would, they had decided, try to find a new flat which could accommodate all three of them, although Marie, the aspiring actress without a secure job, had been anxious about her ability to pay more rent. They had also decided that Kate and Marie, who started work later than Tess at her Holland Park comprehensive school, would go to the local police station on their way to work in the West End and report the visit of the two thugs and their dog. None of the girls was under any illusion that they might not be next in line for the same treatment.
The police station was just off Ladbroke Grove, one of the main arteries through the Victorian suburb with its often-crumbling crescents and terraces and overgrown garden squares, and only about a ten-minute walk from their flat. The bored-looking desk sergeant in reception looked up with interest as they walked in, scanning them from head to foot with a faint leer.
‘What can I do for you young ladies?’ he asked, but his enthusiasm soon drained away when Kate explained why they were there.
‘Wel
l, for a start,’ he said, ‘we would need to take a complaint from the people you say are being annoyed by this dog. You can’t do it for them. Has anyone actually been bitten?’
‘It’s not just a problem with a dog,’ Kate said. ‘It’s a problem with two scallies trying to get this couple out of their flat. They must be working for the landlord.’
‘Must they?’ the sergeant asked sceptically. ‘You don’t seem to me to have very much to go on. In any case if the landlord sent them, this is a civil matter. He may be perfectly entitled to evict this couple if they’re behind with their rent. What they need is a solicitor.’
Kate’s heart sank. Their attempts to help the Wilsons seemed to be hitting the same brick wall whichever way they turned. ‘Do you have someone here called Eddie Lamb?’ she asked. ‘A friend suggested I talk to him for some advice.’
‘He’ll only tell you the same as me,’ the sergeant came back quickly, obviously irritated that they would not take his word for it. ‘There’s no crime here that I can see, and ’specially if these people don’t come in themselves to complain.’
‘Even so . . .’ Kate said, giving the sergeant the benefit of a brilliant smile.
He shrugged. ‘That’s Eddie,’ he muttered reluctantly, waving a hand towards the front entrance. ‘You can catch him yourself, if you must.’
Kate and Marie spun round to meet a small plump man in a trench coat tightly belted around a considerable paunch, and a brown trilby pulled low over startlingly blue eyes. The man had obviously caught the sergeant’s dismissive tone because he looked at the two women without enthusiasm.
‘Did you want me, girls?’ he asked. ‘I don’t come cheap.’ He and the sergeant laughed.
‘Harry Barnard suggested we should track you down,’ Kate said quickly and was pleased to see that the name stopped Lamb in his tracks though he still did not look overjoyed to be accosted.
‘Did he now,’ he said quietly. ‘And how do you come to know Flash Harry? You don’t sound his type. Here, you’d better come in here. But I’ve only got five minutes, mind. I’m due in court at ten which is why I’m here so bloody early.’ He waved them into an empty waiting room on the other side of the reception area and closed the door. ‘So? What did Harry think I could do for you two? Where the hell are you from, anyway? Dublin?’
‘Liverpool, la,’ Kate said tersely. She was tired of being identified only by her accent.
‘Oh, yes,’ Lamb said. ‘You must be the one whose poof of a brother was in trouble earlier in the year. Still seeing Harry, are you? Someone told me he was carrying a torch for you.’
‘I’m not seeing him,’ Kate snapped. ‘I just asked his advice and he gave me your name because you’re here in Notting Hill, and this is where the problem is.’
Lamb raised a disbelieving eyebrow and then glanced at his watch. ‘OK, so tell me about it,’ he said.
When Kate had finished he shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know exactly who owns the house you’re living in, but this sort of thing has been going on for years. And believe me, the tenants never win. If the landlord wants these people out, he’ll have them out. And you too, if he wants to redevelop the whole caboosh. There’s a lot of money to be made out of property round here. Don’t you have a name on the rent book?’
Marie shook her head. ‘We got our flat through an agency,’ she said.
‘I’m just staying there for a little while,’ Kate added. ‘Someone comes round for the rent every Friday, don’t they?’ She glanced at Marie who nodded.
‘You’re supposed to have a rent book,’ Lamb said. ‘But that wouldn’t help you much if they wanted the house emptied. It’s what happens these days. Happens all the time. It used to be a bloke called Rachman, but he’s dead and there’s been a lot of buying and selling going on, people trying to take over his empire. I’ll try to find out who owns your house, but to be honest, if they’ve got the dogs out, I should start looking for somewhere else to live. It won’t be just the one flat they want to empty, it’ll be all of them. They split them up and let them to the West Indians. Looks like you’ve hit the beginning of the process.’
‘Surely it can’t be legal?’ Kate said.
Lamb gave a careless shrug. ‘It’s not illegal enough for us to go chasing up every tenant who’s eased out,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of fingers in the property pie, and a lot of money to be made. The little people don’t count.’
‘These people aren’t being eased out, they’re being shoved,’ Kate said.
‘Well, that’s what life’s like in the big city, darling,’ Lamb said unsympathetically, getting to his feet. ‘You’ll have to get used to it if you decide to stay.’ And with that the two women had to be content. But when they had left the police station Kate happened to glance back and saw Lamb follow them out and cross the road to a red telephone box on the other side to make a couple of phone calls it looked as if he did not want to be overheard.
‘Come on hurry up, we’ll be late,’ Marie said. ‘We can pick up the tube at Holland Park instead of walking all the way back to Notting Hill Gate. It’s the same line.’
‘Right,’ Kate agreed, hurrying after her friend. ‘But next time those thugs come round I might see if I can get a couple of shots of them. If the bizzies won’t help, we’ll just have to help ourselves.’
THREE
DS Harry Barnard took a detour on the way into work that morning. It was a sunny day and he opened the windows of his red Ford Capri and stripped down to his shirt sleeves. He might as well enjoy the trip, he thought, as he veered south and east from Highgate, down the Holloway Road, round the northern edge of the City of London, where every other plot appeared to be a building site as the scars of the war were finally beginning to be removed, and at last headed into the shabby bustling bazaar of small businesses and shops along the Whitehapel road. He parked eventually outside the side-street gym where Ray Robertson had tried to turn him into a boxer years ago when they were both still in the teens, and later tried just as hard to persuade him he would be better off on Robertson’s side of the law than he ever would be as a bobby pounding the beat as a constable in the Metropolitan police.
Robertson had become an honorary big brother to Barnard when they had been evacuated together as young boys, and Barnard could not even now explain why their paths had diverged so dramatically. Some sixth sense, a caution which he did not know he possessed, had eventually kept him away from Ray and his younger brother Georgie at the crucial point when they were establishing their East End empire. And even now, almost twenty years on and with Georgie about to stand trial for crimes which would have got him hanged in the fifties, quite rightly, Barnard believed, he still regarded Ray Robertson as some sort of a mate, though not one he cared to introduce to friends and colleagues in the force. He locked his car with extra care, just in case, although around here Ray Robertson’s writ ran and he doubted that anyone would touch a car parked outside this particular gym.
Inside, he found the cavernous hall deserted, the canvas empty, the punchbags hanging forlornly, and an old man with a cauliflower ear mopping the floor. But there was a light burning in the glassed off cubicle that Ray still called his office, though Harry guessed that these days he could have taken a whole floor in one of the new city blocks going up just a mile away. He banged on the frosted glass door and opened it, to find his boyhood friend and protector wreathed in smoke with the phone stuck to one ear and a large cigar proceeding back and forth to his mouth.
‘Siddown,’ Robertson said, waving the cigar at Harry. ‘Be with you in half a mo.’ He finished his conversation eventually and gave Barnard a welcoming smile.
The strange thing about Ray, Barnard thought, was that you would write him off as someone’s benevolent uncle if you happened to bump into him in the street. Well built and well dressed, with a usually jovial smile, the steel was well concealed in the velvet glove.
‘Nice to see you Harry boy. How’ve you been? I ain’t seen you in a while. Sit
down, why don’t you?’
Barnard took the plain wooden chair which was the only other seat in the cluttered room. ‘I thought it safer to keep away until the trial is out of the way,’ he said.
‘Well, you know what I think about that, but my ma’s not best pleased,’ Robertson said. ‘I should keep out of her way if I were you. She knows it’s all for the best, silly old moo, but she still can’t accept it.’
‘I’d best not send her any flowers for her birthday then,’ Barnard said.
‘Nah, best not,’ Robertson agreed lugubriously. ‘She’ll get used to it in time. She always doted on that boy, didn’t matter how many effing mad things he got up to. Anyway, I’m finished with all that now.’
‘Maybe you should have done that a bit sooner,’ Barnard ventured and then wished he hadn’t as Robertson’s heavy face darkened for a moment.
‘Well, it’s family isn’t it?’ Robertson said, his jaw snapping shut on his cigar. His younger brother George, whom Barnard had also known since the three of them had been evacuees together in rural Hertfordshire, was not the only one in the family who could snarl, though Georgie made much more of a habit of it. ‘So what brings you down here?’ Robertson asked. ‘I would have thought you’d had enough of us for a while.’
‘Who do you know in Notting Hill?’ Barnard asked. ‘A friend of mine’s having some trouble with a landlord, and can’t even find out who owns the property. Is Peter Rachman really dead? There’s all sorts of rumours going around.’
‘He’s dead,’ Robertson said flatly. ‘Pity. I had some talks going with him. Looked like quite a promising deal. Now I’m going to have to start all over again there. There’s two main men at the moment, as I hear it, one I know, the other I don’t – yet.’
Barnard disguised his surprise at that. He had not found it odd to watch the Robertson brothers build up an empire in the East End where they had grown up only a couple of streets away from his own childhood home. They had always had the ruthlessness and the sheer chutzpah to do what they did. And after he had made his choice and joined the police, he had watched in fascination as they had spread their empire into the West End and moved into quite specific areas of activity in Soho where he worked, leaving vice to the Maltese and concentrating on protection rackets amongst the pubs and cafes, clip joints and dodgy bookshops which were his own stamping ground, while at the same time launching themselves into publicity-seeking charity work which attracted rich celebrities who should have known better. But he found it hard to imagine Ray Robertson fitting easily into multiracial West London where bohemian types rubbed shoulders with the local West Indians and the drug of choice was not so much booze as marijuana.
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