“You think he will? Be chancing it a bit now you lot are involved.”
Durham puffed out his cheeks and glanced out the nearest window.
“Hard to say. If he’s seriously worried she’s got enough on him to make a charge stick, then he might think it’s worth the risk. If that’s the case, then what’s he got to lose?”
“Fair point.”
There was a bit of a pause, as if Durham wanted me to say something. If he thought I might know more than I’d already owned up to, then he was going to be badly disappointed.
“Weather can’t make it’s mind up today,” observed Durham. “One minute it’s clouding over, the next it’s bright sunshine. I don’t much care for days like this. Prefer to know exactly where I stand.”
He looked down at me, just enough of a hint of expectation on his face for me to understand. I shook my head.
“I’d love to be able to tell you that I know more than I’ve said, but, honestly, there’s nothing else. I’ve told you everything I know. As it is, I feel like I’m the one whose had the wool pulled over his eyes, having been told all I was doing was a simple and perfectly safe babysitting job. Believe me, I’d have charged a damn sight more if I’d known the truth.”
He looked at me some more, his sharp, grey eyes searching for some sign I might be telling porkies. Eventually, when he spoke again, his voice was free of any hint of suspicion.
“I had to check. People have a nasty habit of keeping information back from the likes of me or, at best, telling us half-truths that leave out most of the important bits.”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t do that myself, sometimes, but not today. You’ve had the lot.”
He looked at his watch.
“Have you decided yet when you’re going to head back to London?”
“Might give it a day or two. Found myself a lady friend with some interesting tastes in entertainment. I’m not sure she wouldn’t send someone after me herself if I left without permission,” I grinned.
“Lucky you. My wife’s only interested in having kids these days. Got two already and she wants another one. Two boys you see. She’s got her heart set on a girl.”
“They’re nothing but trouble, if you ask me.”
Durham laughed. He was still smiling as he left the restaurant.
*
Fifteen minutes later I was sitting in a taxi making my way across town to Lawrence Road. Although it was mostly filled with decent looking houses put up between the wars, there were a couple of commercial premises there too. One was an open-all-hours corner shop where you seemed to be able to buy just about anything you wanted; I’d been in there a few times in the past and never left empty-handed.
The other commercial premises was a family-run garage. Bearings Motors was squeezed on to a plot of land that was hardly big enough to take its tiny office, a covered workshop for two cars and parking out front for a few more vehicles. Cosy, you might say. The brick buildings looked like they’d been converted from some other use, but I’d only ever known the place as a garage.
I hadn’t got to know the place as a customer. For starters, I didn’t drive, so didn’t own a motor. No, what had taken me there the first time was a tip that I should speak to the owner, Ant Southern. You see, Ant barely covered the bills with the money he made from the garage, so he started up a second business, an illegal one, selling nicked vehicle spares, wholesale and retail. It went so well, he expanded into new markets, until one day the Law got mighty close to catching him red-handed with a lorry load of nicked goods. What with being a family man and all, he decided to ease back on things a bit, doing just enough to keep his hand in the game.
On that first occasion, I’d been looking for a crook by the name of Dirty Dave Wilkes, who had turned out to be bloody good at hiding. Then someone told me Ant would know where to find him, so I introduced myself, offered a finder’s fee and, Bob’s your uncle, I had my hands on Wilkes less than an hour later. It turned out Dirty Dave had upset a lot of people in Brighton, including Ant, who turned down the finder’s fee, happy to see Wilkes in trouble.
My reason for heading back to Bearings Motors this time was hope; that plus the knowledge I didn’t have many, if any, other contacts in Brighton with connections to the local world of crime. My hope was that Ant would be able to speak to a man, who’d speak to another man and so on, until someone was able to find out something about the geezer Alex had clobbered with the ashtray.
As the taxi turned into Lawrence Road, I could see the garage halfway down on the right and, very conveniently, standing there on the forecourt talking to another bloke was the tall, wide figure of Ant.
I was spotted before I’d even got fully out of the taxi. “David Good, you tosser. What brings you back here? Don’t tell me you got women troubles again and need Uncle Ant’s sage advice?”
Ant slapped an oil-stained hand into my palm and squeezed. For a moment I thought I was about to squeal, then he let go.
“Sorry to disappoint you, mate, but my days of women troubles are all behind me.”
Ant laughed, the deep lines that appeared on his face filled with grease and dirt.
“Fuck off, you’re always in trouble with the birds. Come on, get yourself inside. I’ll get Sharon to put the kettle on.”
We walked into the office, which was so cold I thought Ant must have had air conditioning installed. But there was more chance of the Queen spit-roasting one of her corgis. The place didn’t look like it had changed one little bit since I was last there; still messy and uninviting.
“See you’ve done the old place up,” I quipped, gawping as if I’d just walked into the Pavilion.
“You noticed?” Ant turned towards a young girl sitting behind the tiny reception desk. “Sharon, darling, two cups of tea, love. Best get the digestives out, too.” Ant picked up an oily rag and made an effort at cleaning his hands, though it was hard to see it making any difference. “No point spending any money on this old place. Anyway, if I made it all nice and cosy it might encourage the punters to hang around and try their hand at haggling. Not that it would do ’em much good. Come on, let’s put our feet up in my office.”
We walked through into what he called his office, a place that would give any health and safety inspector a heart attack. For starters, it was hardly big enough for the two knackered wooden chairs and bashed up Formica-topped desk that were squeezed into it. When I sat down with the back of the chair pressed against the wall, my knees were about an inch from the desk. The place stunk, too, a stomach-turning mixture of cigarettes, oil and mould. Mind you, the room was so badly lit, you couldn’t see into the nooks and crannies clearly enough to spot the mould and rot I guessed had to be embedded there.
Ant dropped himself into the other chair and brought his feet up on to the desk, before picking up a pack of Embassy and a box of matches from among the mass of paperwork, empty food wrappers and Christ knows what else that was piled up on there.
“Still don’t smoke?” He asked, offering the pack of Embassy to me.
“Nope. I hope to live a long and fruitful life, unlike you.”
“Bollocks, I don’t want to get so old and knackered they end up shoving me in an old folks home so I can rot there. I’m going out in a blaze of glory, smoking and drinking myself to death on a beach somewhere in Spain,” he added, as he lit up.
And I didn’t doubt for a second he meant what he said.
“Sharon been here long, has she?”
In the time I lived in the town, Ant had got through three receptionists, on account of the poor pay, the crap working conditions and his acting like a dictator; something he’d not given a damn about. Take it or leave it, was his response whenever someone on his team complained.
“Yeah. Three months. Must be some kind of modern day record.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve turned into the very model of the perfect employer?”
“Na, ’course not. I reckon she’s too dim to get herself another j
ob. Most people want at least a few brain cells and she can’t have more than half a dozen. What’s she doing with that bloody tea. Hold on, I’m gonna have a look.”
He swung his feet back down on to the floor and hustled out of the room, shouting for his tardy receptionist. I looked around, thinking that most of the stuff in the room had probably been there the last time I paid a visit. If Ant played his cards right and left everything where it was for a few more years, he’d end up with a room full of genuine antiques which he could sell off to fund his life-ending trip to Spain.
Moments later, I heard some shouting, a pause, then more shouting. Someone else might have been involved, but the only voice I heard was Ant’s. Less than a minute later, the door opened and Sharon stood there clinging on to a battered metal tray with two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits. None of it looked safe in her uncertain hands.
“That grumpy old sod been having a go at you, has he?” I asked, leaning across to hold the door.
“Yeah, but he’s always like that. It don’t bother me any more,” she replied, her voice a nasal high-pitched effort that put my teeth on edge. “I just tell him where he can stick it if he gets too shirty.”
She squeezed herself and the tray in through the doorway, taking so much care not to spill the teas you’d think she was carrying a bomb with a hair trigger.
“Excuse me,” she said, positioning herself next to me before leaning across so she could place the tray on the edge of the desk. “It’s so small and messy in here, ain’t it?” She flashed a big, wide smile at me as her tits threatened to burst out the front of her low-cut top. She was a big girl up top, was Sharon; I might not have come back up alive if I’d been buried under that pair. I wondered if there was more to Ant’s employing Sharon than her no doubt impressive shorthand and customer service skills.
“I’ve seen worse, down my local council tip,” I said cheerily, trying to lean my head back against the wall without it looking like I didn’t want Sharon’s boobs pressed up against my cheeks. I’m nothing but considerate where women are concerned and I didn’t want to give her the impression I found her assets unwelcome.
She used the tray as a slow motion battering ram, forcing a tidal wave of crap across the desk towards the far wall, so it cleared enough space for her to deposit the two cups and the plate of biscuits.
“There we go, darling,” announced the friendly receptionist, giving me one last chance to take in the view before she straightened her back, turned and trotted out of the office, smiling warmly.
“About bloody time,” shouted Ant, trying to get back into the room before Sharon had completely left it. “And answer that sodding phone. Punters don’t wait all day, you know.”
Ant sat back down, took a slurp of tea, flicked his feet back on to the desk, before clasping his hands against the back of his head.
“So, this a social visit or you looking for a favour?”
There was a look on Ant’s face, part cynical, part suspicious, that told me he already knew full well that I wasn’t just passing and decided to pop in to say hello.
“Christ, am I that easy to read?”
“This ’ere nose of mine, it can smell trouble a mile away. It’s had enough practice. What mess you got yourself in this time?”
“You know what you said about women trouble...”
Ant roared with laughter, his mouth wide-open and his eyes closed. When he opened them again and forced himself to stop shaking with glee, he wagged a finger at me and barked, “I knew it. You ain’t changed one little bit, ’ave you? Got one of ’em up the duff ’ave you?”
I shook my head and managed to look suitably offended, rolling my eyes until they felt like they were going to fall out of their sockets.
“It’s not that type of woman trouble.” More laughter from Ant. I waited until he’d calmed down enough to hear me speak. I put on a serious face and looked him right in the eye before adding, “This one has killed a man and she did it with a glass ashtray. A bloody big, heavy one, I’ll grant you, but it was an ashtray all the same.”
I waited. Ant stopped laughing and looked at me through narrowed eyes, not sure whether to believe me or not. He picked up his cigarette, took a long drag as he starred at the battered metal ashtray on his desk, then blew the smoke up towards the low ceiling. He must have decided I wasn’t pulling his leg.
“You’re serious?”
“Yep. The cops scooped up the remains this morning and they’ve got a uniform on guard duty outside her room at the Churchill right now.”
Ant didn’t say anything at first, just sat there looking at me. Someone switched on a radio and the sound of Smokie’s ‘If You Think You Know How to Love Me’ reached into the office.
“What happened?”
I gave him a summary of all the important bits right up to that morning’s unpleasant events at the hotel. He listened in silence, puffing occasionally on his cigarette, never taking his eyes off me. When I finished, Ant stabbed out his cigarette, inspected the nails on his right hand, then looked back across the table at me.
“Sounds like your young lady has got herself into some proper bother. If I was you, I’d clear off out as fast as your legs can carry you, before someone decides you’re getting in their way and drops you off the top of a very tall building.”
“Yeah, I thought of that myself, but, well, you know how it is, I’m a nosy sod and I can’t stop myself wanting to know more; especially as I’ve got a feeling there is more to this than people are letting on.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ve got your nose, I’ve got my gut and it’s telling me to keep digging.”
“You might be digging your own fucking grave, if you do that.”
“Advice noted and if things do start getting tricky, take it from me, I’ll be out of here like an Exocet missile.”
Ant pondered some more, scratching his nose. His mucky finger might have left an oily mark there, but his nose was already too dark with grease to tell.
“And how are you hoping I can help?”
“Information. Anything you can rustle up that helps me put the finger on who sent this bloke to snatch Alex and why. I know it’s most likely Groves, but I don’t like making assumptions. They’ve a habit of turning out to be wrong.”
He ran the tip of one finger over the stubble above his top lip.
“I’m not putting my neck on the line for you, Dave, but I’ll see what I can find out. You know, if someone from the Smoke has started sticking their nose into things down ’ere, the locals aren’t going to be too happy about it. If they get hold of ’em, there won’t be much left for you to ask questions of afterwards.”
“Good point, Ant. That hadn’t occurred to me. Just makes me think all the more that whoever sent that bloke to the Churchill must be getting pretty desperate. Mind you, I don’t know what good that knowledge does me right now.”
“Like I said, you ought to bugger off home as soon as you can pack your bags. Seems likely to me that someone else is going to get properly hurt before this is all sorted.” Ant grabbed a couple of biscuits, then picked up the plate and reached across with it. “Biscuit? You’d better ’ave one now, before I eat the lot.”
“Be rude not to.” I helped myself to a couple of digestives. Go down a treat with a cup of tea, they do.
*
As I sat in the taxi on the way back to the Churchill, I weighed up what Ant had said about someone getting hurt before things were done and dusted. It was something I hadn’t given any real thought to beforehand, but now he’d suggested it, I had to agree it made a lot of sense and one thing I needed to make sure of was that it wasn’t me on the receiving end of any pain.
I still had it in my head that if Tony Groves had sent someone down to Brighton to drag Alex back to London, he wouldn’t have sent just one heavy. Surely there would have been at least two of them. Like I’d mentioned to Durham back at the hotel, the most likely scenario was the second pair of hands had be
en outside the hotel in a motor, waiting to leg it once his mate had rounded up Alex. If that was the case, this other bloke would have reported back to his boss by now and it didn’t take a lot of effort to imagine there were new plans being dreamed up and possibly even put into action already. It also seemed bloody obvious that, this time, Groves’ crew would show up mob-handed. If that happened, all hell could break loose.
The taxi dropped me off at the hotel and I stood outside, looking out at the sea, deep in thought. Sad to say, on this occasion I didn’t manage come up with great ideas, so walked back into the hotel and up to my room, disappointed to find there was no sign of Angela on reception or in the restaurant.
I tried calling Alex on the phone, but got no answer. Probably taking a nap, I decided. There was nothing much on the TV, so I switched on the radio and sat back on the settee to enjoy a few tunes. That didn’t last long. I was restless, getting up, sitting back down, re-reading some of yesterday’s newspaper, even doing a few press-ups, thinking the exercise might help me to unwind. None of it worked. I needed to be doing something to move things on. But what? The coppers were on the case, I’d harassed Scoular and paid a visit to the only person in town who might be able to find some leads for me. Patience is a virtue, or so they say, but I wasn’t feeling very virtuous.
Just when I was thinking there was nothing for it except to take a walk, perhaps have another look at the pier, the phone rang.
“Dave, it’s Ant.”
In a flash, all my frustrations went out the window. I could tell from his tone that Ant had something worthwhile to tell me. A development, at last.
“Ant. That’s quick work. I wasn’t expecting to hear back from you so soon. What you got for me, then?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
As Good as Dead Page 11