The Garden Party

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘That was hardly legal,’ Harry Vicary sighed as he and Tudy Scaly sat on a wooden bench on the Albert Embankment, with the river and the Houses of Parliament on the opposite bank behind them.

  ‘It was all very illegal, chummy, most bent.’ Tudy Scaly shrugged. ‘But it got a result.’ He was a tall, broad-chested man and was dressed, in Vicary’s view, in a manner which could only be described as ‘meticulous’, with highly polished shoes, knife-edge creases in his trousers, a neat Italian cut jacket. ‘It’s just the way of it, Harry, my good mate; just the way the world turns.’

  ‘It was immoral.’

  ‘It got a good result, like I said.’ Scaly glanced up at the sunlight streaming through the foliage of the trees. ‘You know, my weird Christian name wasn’t given to me because my parents were practising Christians and wanted to imbue me and my brother with the Christian ethic of right and wrong. We were given the names of obscure saints – he is Arwan – so we’d learn to stick up for ourselves on the sink estate we lived on because the other kids would poke fun at us because of our weird names. My old man, he was a Royal Marine Commando, and me and Arwan inherited his physique, so we could look after ourselves at that awful council school we went to. But the old man did tell us one thing: he hated the French . . . how he hated them.’

  ‘Most English do,’ Vicary said drily. ‘Most of us are Francophobic.’

  ‘Yes, but he said the French have a saying, “You can’t make an omelette without breaking the egg.”’

  ‘Meaning what in this case?’

  ‘Well, meaning if you have to do some damage to bring on a greater good then so be it. The initial damage is worth the outcome.’ Scaly’s eye was caught by a trim nurse in her blue uniform walking strongly and proudly towards St Thomas’s Hospital. ‘She will make one lucky man an excellent wife,’ he commented. ‘You married, Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m divorced with three up and flown.’ Scaly continued. ‘So, Rainbird killed that boy and it was murder. The broken bottle picked up in haste and panic was well on the floor and the boy was putting his hands up, but Rainbird was advancing on him with a grin on his face and a blade in his paw, saying, “You shouldn’t have done that to me”, and slowly closed on the boy and did the business with the knife. Murder. Clear as day.’

  ‘And you know that that was how it happened?’ Vicary asked.

  ‘Yes, Harry, we know. We spoke to the landlord of The Cross Keys, he saw everything, but it was Arnie Rainbird’s pub, full of Arnie Rainbird’s gang. Herron, Primrose, Magg, McAlpine, they were all there, but the boy’s prints were on the neck of the bottle. Rainbird was convicted of murder but the charge was reduced to manslaughter on appeal because of those prints. So Arnie Rainbird walked after ten summers. No one saw anything but everyone saw everything.’

  ‘So, no statements?’

  ‘None, not a single dicky bird would sing a song. Not one.’

  ‘So where did you find your witness?’ Vicary enjoyed the gentle heat of the sun upon his face.

  ‘We didn’t. He found us.’ Scaly smiled. ‘He walked into New Scotland Yard as bold as brass asking to see me. He had two gofers with him.’

  ‘Convers and Tyrell?’ Vicary guessed.

  ‘Yes, so we sat down and we had a powwow. The witness was only a witness by proxy.’

  ‘Eddie Fretwell?’

  ‘Eddie “The Slime” Fretwell . . . “Slimy” Eddie.’ Scaly nodded slowly. ‘That villain would have shopped his own mother if there was something in it for him. Anyway, “Slimy” Eddie is looking at a ten stretch for armed robbery and is not enthusiastic about the prospect. He was on bail at the time having surrendered his passport,’ Scaly explained, ‘hence being at liberty.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And not over the moon about being a guest of Her Majesty for the next few years, as I am sure you can imagine.’

  ‘Yes.’ Vicary watched a grey squirrel jump from one tree to another. ‘That does not require a great leap of imagination.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. So Convers and Tyrell are also looking at a little of Goldilocks’s favourite food in respect of a bungled snatch and grab at a jewellery shop. It was all very clumsy and so clearly caught on CCTV that it could have been staged for ITV London. I mean, if they had stood and posed for the images it couldn’t have been better, but they had previous and so it was worth two years inside. They were also bailed pending trial.’

  ‘I follow,’ Vicary replied, taking his eye off the squirrel.

  ‘So . . . here’s the script –’ Scaly turned to face Vicary – ‘it turns out that Convers and Tyrell are a pair of lowlife petty thieves and they occasionally, but only occasionally, do a little gofering for “Slimy” Eddie and The Whitechapel Fleet, but they are not seen or even known to be part of The Fleet, which means they can drink on Arnie Rainbird’s turf. So, were they or were they not in The Cross Keys on the night that Rainbird stabbed that boy? They were sitting at the next table; ringside seat.’

  ‘Useful,’ Vicary replied. ‘I think I can see where this is going.’

  ‘Yes . . . added to which is the great hostility between Eddie “The Slime” and Arnie Rainbird.’

  ‘Yes, we know that.’

  ‘OK. So the script is that Convers and Tyrell feed details about the incident that only an eye witness would know . . . clothes Rainbird was wearing, exactly when the broken bottle was dropped; all crucial to our case if we wanted a murder conviction. They feed the details to Eddie “The Slime” Fretwell.’

  ‘He gave evidence . . . and . . .’ Vicary held up his hand, ‘let me guess, all the charges against Fretwell, Convers and Tyrell went away.’

  ‘In a word, yes.’ Scaly smiled. ‘Neat, don’t you think?’

  ‘No . . .’ Vicary growled, ‘but carry on.’

  ‘So Fretwell disappears into witness protection; he’s probably John Smith living north of the Humber now. Nobody wants to go north to look for him . . . that old north/south divide . . . it keeps many people safe.’

  ‘You can say that again. All those mammoths in the Pennines and the cave dwellers everywhere.’ Vicary forced a smile, though he felt increasingly uncomfortable in the presence of Tudy Scaly.

  ‘So Fretwell disappeared down the witness protection rathole, taking all he had in the bank with him, all ill-gotten, and he deserted his gang. With Fretwell gone The Fleet just evaporated.’

  ‘And Convers and Tyrell?’

  ‘Oh . . . two silly boys; they didn’t want to leave old London Town, did they? Reckoned they did not need witness protection because they did not give evidence against Arnie Rainbird.’ Scaly opened the palms of his hands.

  ‘Big mistake.’ Vicary shook his head.

  ‘Very big mistake, but the evidence Fretwell gave was so detailed that Rainbird knew what had happened. His gang worked out that the only people in the pub who could not be vouched for were the two loafers in the ringside seat and the tried and tested East End telegraph started chattering. Blaggers started to talk with or without a few well-aimed kicks to the ribcage and eventually names were mentioned. So, those old bones dug up in Enfield were the remains of Convers and Tyrell? Surprised me that they were not tipped into the Old Father.’ Scaly raised a thumb and indicated the River Thames behind him. ‘That’s where bones usually end up.’

  ‘You’re admitting perverting the course of justice, Tudy. With your encouragement, Eddie Fretwell gave false testimony.’ Vicary sat forwards resting his elbows on his knees. ‘He perjured himself . . . with the encouragement of the police. That is sub judice; conspiring to give false evidence.’

  ‘Not admitting anything, chummy, not admitting anything, my good mate. Like I said, it’s the way the world turns, it’s the way the ball bounces . . . and this . . . this, Harry, my good and faithful friend, this is just a chat about the weather.’

  ‘I feel unwell,’ Vicary sighed.

  ‘Don’t be soft-hear
ted. We got Arnie Rainbird.’ Tudy Scaly spoke confidently. ‘We got him for just one murder but his paw prints were on many more, not just trussing up a geezer and rolling him off the roof of a twelve storey block of flats and taking his time about it; letting the geezer sweat before he was pushed. Not just tying up another geezer on the tracks in front of an express train and singing “The Runaway Train” as the rails begin to sing . . . but many, many more. Yes, we knew about those two murders well before you found out. Arnie Rainbird’s victims are numbered in two figures, Harry, so it was down to the old eggshell for an omelette game if we were going to nail him.’ Tudy Scaly scratched the back of his left hand. ‘And Convers and Tyrell wouldn’t have come to any harm if they’d taken our advice and followed Fretwell into the witness protection rathole. So hell mend them.’

  ‘So Rainbird knew who they were more or less as soon as he was convicted?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘And left them alone until a few weeks before he was released, when he had them abducted and given a good kicking, and then kept somewhere on a starvation diet until they were dragged on to the lawn at the party, apparently looking like two shipwrecked sailors?’

  ‘Seems like it. But they had their chance to escape . . .’ Scaly paused. ‘Confess East End justice can be quite inspiring at times.’

  ‘You have no conscience, Tudy. You don’t feel guilt at all?’

  ‘None. Nothing to feel guilty about. Unlike you, Harry, unlike you.’

  Vicary turned angrily towards Tudy Scaly. ‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Your methods might be a little more in keeping with the rules, Harry, but at what cost? Harry, my good mate, at what cost?’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Vicary replied coldly. ‘What do you mean “at what cost”?’

  ‘Well, let me explain. You know when I was in the Murder and Serious Crime Squad we had our narks, toerags giving information on other toerags for a few quid, but nothing like we get in the Anti Terrorist Squad, because no one likes people who plant bombs on underground trains and no one likes people who plant bombs on airliners. So we get a lot of stuff coming our way and because of that we probably heard what happened last night before you did, my good mate.’

  ‘What was that?’ Vicary’s voice cracked. ‘What has gone down?’

  ‘Only that Arnie Rainbird’s foot soldiers were down King’s Cross last night and were down there in very large numbers. They were looking for girls, not just any girls, Harry, but girls who once attended a certain party somewhere.’ Scaly fixed Vicary with a cold stare. ‘Do you know anything about a party that had something to do with Rainbird, Harry? Anyway, girls who were at that party and who no longer work the street or who have left London completely, well, they’re probably safe, but those girls who were at the party and who still work the street . . . they, on the other hand, are not safe. The soldiers apparently were controlled by a small, feisty woman who was heard to say things like, “She’s one, she was at the party; grab her.”’ Scaly paused and looked upwards. ‘You know, Harry, if you told Rainbird that the girls at that party were talking because they had seen something naughty and you did that in order to put the wind up Rainbird and his lieutenants, well, you did that all right. You frightened him, but probably not in the way you hoped or intended, no Harry, you frightened Rainbird into making a pre-emptive strike, my good mate; hitting you before you can hit him. Three girls got very badly rolled. They were dropped off on the steps of the Westminster Hospital. All three were brasses but they’re still girls, Harry, still human beings. One of them will never walk again; another is still in a coma and not responding to any stimulus. The one girl that can talk said they were warned by Arnie Rainbird’s soldiers not to say anything to the Filth about the party. Sounds like it was quite a knees-up, Harry, that party, quite some knees-up. The soldiers were very keen to find a brass called “Long Liz”. Do you know of her, Harry? Do you? Because if you do, you need to move fast; they want her. You know what I mean?’ Scaly drew his finger across the front of his throat. ‘She’s on borrowed time, if it isn’t already too late, Harry. She was seen talking to the Filth in a pub in Canning Town. I mean, Arnie Rainbird’s spies are everywhere . . . everywhere and he has tentacles which are both long and numerous. Talk about being indiscreet. You’re not the brightest button in the box are you, Harry, my good mate. In fact, you’re well short of the full shilling, if you ask me, well short, and you climb on your moral high horse because I bent a rule or two to get Arnie Rainbird put away . . . do me a favour.’

  Vicary’s stomach felt hollow. His jaw sagged.

  ‘You’ve come over all pale, Harry, do you know that?’ Tudy Scaly stood. ‘Your little old face has suddenly lost all its lovely colour. Do you want me to call a cab for you, Harry? Do you want me to get a cab to take you home?’ Tudy Scaly turned to walk away, but looked back and said, ‘I’m serious, Harry, don’t wag your little moralizing finger at me. So I broke a rule, but I put a very nasty man where he belongs, and if Convers and Tyrell had taken the advice I gave them . . . and strongly gave them, I might add, they would still be alive and no one would have got hurt. But you . . . going by the book . . . well, there’s three women in the Westminster Hospital. All three are still south of thirty years old, all three have eclipsed life ahead of them, a sort of half life; go and listen to what they have to say to you. Go and listen to what they are likely to tell you to do with your rule book, Harry . . . go and listen to them . . .’

  ‘All right. Thank you.’ Harry Vicary put the phone down. ‘That was Canning Town Police; Long Liz isn’t at home. It was fanciful to think we might have been in time. Penny, Tom . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go and talk to her neighbours, someone might have seen something.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Frankie . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You have something?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Alex Montgomery.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘He’s the glazier whose premises occupy the site once owned by the Cole brothers, the builders.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Turns out that Montgomery has previous for violence. He’s known to McAlpine and Charles Magg, and probably to others in Arnie Rainbird’s crew.’

  ‘So he’s no glazier?’ Vicary leaned forward.

  ‘No, sir. He’s sitting the land to keep the squatters off . . . and the land, according to the Land Registry, belongs to A. R. Holdings.’

  Vicary groaned. ‘Don’t tell me the A. R. being Arnold Rainbird?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d like to take a run out to see Mr Cole. I am certain he’s a victim of some scam and he didn’t tell Penny and Tom here the full story when they called on him, probably out of fear.’

  ‘Yes, do that, have another chat with him. Thanks, Frankie. Are you happy to go alone?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s a one-hander.’

  The three officers stood and walked towards the door of Vicary’s office. Penny Yewdall, the last of the three to reach the door, stopped and turned around. ‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing, sir; we should all have seen what Rainbird would do.’

  ‘Possibly . . . possibly.’ Vicary reclined in his chair. ‘But I should have seen it more than anybody and before anybody else. All right, thanks, Penny, but go and see if you can rescue anything from this mess.’

  ‘I saw her get taken away, so I did.’ The woman opened the door to her house just an inch and kept the security chain in place. ‘About six o’clock this morning. I was awake and I looked out from my bedroom window which is opposite her house. Didn’t give her no time to dress they didn’t, just in a red T-shirt, nothing else . . . no shoes . . . nothing. Such long legs she has, long legs.’

  ‘Who took her?’

  ‘You did, the Old Bill. You’re the Old Bill, aren’t you?’

  ‘We did?’ Penny Yewdall gasped. ‘Yes, we’re the Old Bill.’

  ‘Yes, they was police, four of them. Four big geezers.’ />
  ‘How did you know they were police, madam?’ Tom Ainsclough asked.

  ‘Cos they had her in . . . what are those things? Handcuffs, they had her in handcuffs.’

  ‘You can buy handcuffs from a toy shop!’ Yewdall could not contain her anger.

  ‘Were her hands cuffed in front of her or behind?’ Ainsclough fought to contain his annoyance.

  ‘Behind,’ the woman replied. She was timid. Elderly. Dark-haired.

  Tom Ainsclough sighed. ‘They were not police officers; we would not handcuff a female DP with her hands behind her back.’

  ‘DP?’ The woman asked.

  ‘Detained Person,’ Yewdall replied coldly. ‘What sort of vehicle did they have?’

  ‘Red van, dearie, just a red van; she went in the back with three of the men.’ The woman shut her front door.

  Yewdall and Ainsclough looked at each other. ‘Now what?’ Yewdall said softly. ‘Now what do we do?’

  ‘We built the business up from nothing, me and my brother.’ Roy Cole received Frankie Brunnie on the south-facing porch of his modest, paint-peeling, bungalow where he had received Yewdall and Ainsclough a few days earlier, and similarly Brunnie found himself sitting adjacent to a plethora of colour and abundance of flora, with bees humming and birds in song. ‘We had both left school with no qualifications and we were walking near our house one day, two sixteen, seventeen-year-old lads, and there was a team of blokes digging a trench along the pavement. So there were a couple of spades standing propped up against the wall and me and my brother, well, we just grabbed one each and pitched in. We grafted with that crew all day and went home when they knocked off, and the next day we went back to the trench and worked with them like a pair of Trojans, and at the end of that day the boys said to the gaffer, “Set ’em on, boss”, and we were set on and we worked with that crew for the next year and a half, and we got to know the building trade. We got known, got offered jobs and the work just kept coming in, and over the years we became established. Then, a few years ago, we got word of an odd parcel of land which was up for sale and we bought it because it was next door to our premises. I mean, it was the next field. We owned two acres, more than we needed, and the field next to us suddenly sprouted a “For Sale” sign; that field was ten acres. Now ten acres with planning permission . . . that land would then be worth something. So we bought it without planning permission, and if we threw in our two acres and then applied for planning permission for houses on a twelve acre site, that was retirement money for me and my brother. I mean low to middle seven figures; North London, a green field site . . . it was valuable with planning permission.’