‘Kate,’ he said as she squeezed into the limited space available without getting too close to Price. ‘We’ve got an assignment for you that’s a bit unusual.’
‘What’s that?’ Kate asked, looking uncertain. The last unusual excursion she had taken for the agency was a secondment into the fashion industry which had not ended well.
‘Perhaps you’d better explain,’ Fellows said to Price, and Kate wondered why he too seemed unusually hesitant. Something, she thought, was up, and it was not a thought she welcomed.
‘I need some pictures taken,’ Price said with a heartiness which did not ring quite true. ‘And for now I want them taken outside my office set-up. You met our picture editor, Bill Kenyon. For some reason he’s never got a photographer free when I want one, especially when I want to do some digging around. Research I suppose you could call it. He’ll send a man down to the Bailey or the High Court at the drop of a hat but anything a bit more offbeat and he’s suddenly too short-staffed. I think there’s more to it than that, but of course I can’t prove it. So I thought I’d look for a bit of freelance talent I could hire on my exes. No one ever queries them.’ He gave Kate the smile of a grizzly bear about to land a salmon.
‘Naturally I thought of you,’ he went on. ‘I want to go down south of the river this week and some snaps would be really useful. I could go on my own but a couple in some of the pubs I want to visit will look much more innocent than a nosy bloke on his own. We’d just look like tourists out for a jaunt on the wild side. Something like that.’
‘Is this to do with what we were talking about the other night?’ Kate asked, her voice full of suspicion. ‘You were talking about Ray Robertson and his brother. I really don’t want to get involved with them. You know why.’
‘No, no, this is nothing to do with his mob. This is strictly south of the river, Reg Smith’s territory. There’s no love lost there.’
Still unsure, Kate glanced at Ken Fellows. ‘Is this official with you?’ she said. ‘Part of the job.’
‘Of course,’ Fellows said airily, although Kate could see he was not entirely comfortable with the idea.
‘As far as you’re concerned it’ll just be an evening out, with a few quiet pictures taken when I tell you,’ Price said. ‘A little bird tells me there’s something going on down there, something to put the train robbers’ noses out of joint. A big job but without the stupid mistakes Reynolds and that gang made. But it’s only a rumour I want to check out. Nothing heavy.’
Kate couldn’t help feeling that Price was trying to convince himself as much as her. ‘How do you come to hear rumours like that?’ she asked.
Price smiled and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’s more than you need to know, petal,’ he said. ‘Crime reporters have their own contacts, you know? Their own sources of information. Will Saturday night suit you?’
‘You can have a day off in return,’ Fellows said, though he sounded grudging.
Price must be paying him something substantial to justify this, Kate thought. She nodded. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘It’s out of the office, at least, and it sounds interesting. Why not?’
‘Right, you make the arrangements with Kate,’ Fellows said to Price dismissively. ‘Now bugger off and let me get on with the rest of the day.’
Kate followed Price out into the main office, from which most of the photographers had already set off on the day’s assignments. She herself was due at a fashion show in the West End, but Price put a hand on her arm before she could collect her coat.
‘This is a private arrangement between me and you and Ken,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t go telling anyone about it. You know who I mean?’
‘Why is your picture editor being so difficult about it?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know for sure,’ Price said. ‘There’s wheels within wheels in Fleet Street. A lot of the printers and some of the hacks live in south-east London, where there’s also a lot of crime. I sometimes think there are connections there. It’s a very tight world, jobs get handed on from father to son, there’s supposed to be a whole lot of men on the payroll who don’t actually exist – Mickey Mouse and Tommy Steele are favourites. The unions are powerful and connive with it all. But that’s something people like me have to leave well alone. I think I’m safe enough looking at what Reg Smith is up to, but if Reg Smith down in Peckham turns out to have a best mate working at the Globe, I’m stuffed. The story will never run.’
Kate shivered, trying to push her misgivings aside. ‘Just this once, then,’ she said. ‘If I don’t feel safe I’ll say no next time. I’ve had a bit too much excitement in this job already. I think I prefer a quiet life.’
‘You’re a doll,’ Price said. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you when I’ve got something set up.’
DS Harry Barnard, in his usual smart Italian suit but an unusually sober dark tie, had taken his place in the conference room early, choosing a seat centrally placed but towards the back of the chairs set out that morning for the entire complement of CID officers who served the West End. The room filled up quickly but the conversation was muted as if the men had gathered for a wake. The news that they were apparently under surveillance themselves had flashed around CID in record time and the name Copeland had raised hackles in the pubs after work. As the clock ticked relentlessly up to nine, the murmuring was reduced to a sullen silence.
Assistant Commissioner John Amis arrived dead on time, led in by a stony-faced DCI Keith Jackson and followed by a broad-shouldered heavyweight wearing a leather jacket over his suit and a look of subdued triumph barely concealed by a bland smile. But the eyes were watchful, small and set deep, beneath a thatch of dark hair cut very short, and the lips thin, the lines around them deeply entrenched. DS Vic Copeland looked like trouble, Barnard thought, but he had so far come up with no feasible strategy to dodge Jackson’s plan to make them a team.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Amis said, prompting more than one hastily concealed smirk from a group which was seldom thought of – or thought of itself – in those terms. ‘Let’s be under no illusions,’ Amis went on. ‘The commissioner himself has authorized this meeting and the measures I have been asked to take to tackle what we see as a crisis in public confidence over policing in this division. The law-abiding residents of Soho – and I am assured there are some – are quite clear that it is increasingly difficult to distinguish between lawbreakers and law enforcers in their area particularly.’ None of the assembled officers dared to voice even a murmur of dissent at that, although the funereal faces of many of them dropped another couple of notches into outright discontent. Undoubtedly able to feel the chilly atmosphere Amis raised his voice a fraction as Jackson scowled at his detectives.
‘It can’t go on,’ Amis said. ‘It is perfectly evident to the public, and even more damagingly, to members of the Press, that Soho has become lawless. It is obviously in the hands of criminal gangsters who run prostitution and protection and extortion rackets, and equally obvious that some of you are in the pockets of these gangsters and others of you are being paid to turn a blind eye by petty offenders and perverts and to ignore the complaints of innocent business people. You are bringing the entire Force into disrepute and it has got to stop.’
There was an uneasy shuffling amongst the detectives which was quelled by icy looks from both senior officers.
Amis held up his hand. ‘DCI Jackson has been instructed to refer any wrongdoing which comes to light straight to me at the Yard,’ he said. ‘And to help him in his task of uncovering illegality, I have seconded DS Copeland, late of the City of London force, to CID here. He will work with the team in the normal way but will be required to report back regularly to Mr Jackson if – or more likely when – he becomes aware of any misconduct. And by that I mean even the smallest infringement of the rules.’
DS Robbie Mason, heavyweight, red-faced, stalwart of the Police Federation, and near enough to retirement to be the least intimidated by t
he assistant commissioner amongst those present, waved a hand in the air and lumbered to his feet. ‘With respect sir,’ he growled, ‘you seem to be working from an assumption that everyone here is guilty of something, regardless of evidence to that effect.’
There was a murmur of agreement from those around him, and AC Amis’s face darkened. ‘Disciplinary matters will be dealt with in the usual way,’ he said. ‘But nobody here should make any mistake. I expect there to be far more of them than there have been in the recent past. Far more.’ And if anyone in the room did not entirely believe John Amis’s determination the vigorous nods of agreement from DCI Jackson and DS Copeland should have left them in no doubt of the seriousness of the situation. Amis glanced at his watch and made to pick up his uniform cap and gloves but before he could stand up Harry Barnard put up his hand and stood up in his turn.
‘Could I ask one question, sir, about an ongoing case?’ Amis looked as if he would refuse but Barnard went on quickly. ‘The witnesses in the case against Georgie Robertson,’ he said. ‘Are they all present and correct, sir? No one’s gone AWOL?’
‘Of course not, sergeant,’ Amis snapped. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Just that I saw someone who looked very like one of them, sir,’ Barnard said airily, trying to bury his anxiety about one very young witness in Georgie’s case. ‘He was found in very unfortunate circumstances. But if you have them all safe there’s no problem, is there?’
‘You arrested Robertson, didn’t you, sergeant?’
‘Yes sir, and I’d very much like to see him put away,’ Barnard said.
DCI Jackson, who had looked embarrassed during this exchange, stood up. ‘If there are no more questions I will see Mr Amis out,’ Jackson said, making it pretty clear by his stony expression that no more would be taken. ‘Barnard, I’ll see you in my office in ten minutes.’
DS Copeland did not follow the detectives back to the CID office where a torrent of grumbles immediately erupted, but made his exit with the senior officers.
Barnard slumped in his chair without, for once, taking off his jacket and hanging it up carefully.
‘You’re going to have to watch it,’ Robbie Mason muttered, leaning confidentially over the back of his chair, taking care not to be overheard in the general hubbub. ‘I always thought you were too pally with Ray Robertson. It’ll come back to haunt you mate, if that bastard Copeland gets his teeth into it.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Barnard said. ‘I can’t undo the fact that I grew up with the Robertson brothers, can I? But you’re right. I’ll steer clear of Ray for a bit. I know it makes sense.’
‘You’re not the only one who’s going to have to make changes while Copeland’s around. Let’s just hope he’s not here for long.’
Barnard glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go and see what Jackson wants,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the advice, Robbie. Believe me, I’m listening.’ And as if to prove it, there was less spring in Barnard’s step than usual as he made his way to Jackson’s office and knocked on the door. To his surprise it was opened by DS Vic Copeland whose eyes were as stony as his welcoming smile was wide.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said and waved to one of the two chairs ranged in front of the desk of a definitely unsmiling DCI Jackson.
‘Sit down, both of you,’ Jackson said. He steepled his hands in front of his face. ‘You both heard what Mr Amis said,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to repeat any of it except to say that things have got to change. Barnard, I want you to work closely with Sergeant Copeland until he learns his way around the manor. Take him around with you for the rest of the week, introduce him to your contacts, show him the premises of particular interest. There’s plenty of those, God knows. Point him in the direction of the toms, the pimps and the perverts, the petty thieves and the conmen. Make sure he knows who’s a likely source of information on the Maltese and Ray Robertson’s mob.’
‘Sounds like quite an education,’ Copeland said. ‘I’m looking forward to it. I gather you know Robertson quite well yourself, Harry.’ He smirked.
‘I happened to grow up in the same neck of the woods as they did,’ Barnard said. ‘Same school to start with. We were evacuated to a farm together for a while. After that we went our separate ways.’
‘No one’s ever pinned the older brother down, have they?’ Copeland pressed on. ‘Funny, that.’
Barnard scowled but said nothing. Any differences of opinion he was going to have with Copeland, and he had no doubt there would be a few, would not be aired in front of the DCI.
‘Find Sergeant Copeland a desk, Barnard, and fill him in on current cases.’
‘Are we any nearer an ID for the body on the building site, guv?’ Barnard asked.
‘I’ve heard nothing more from forensics,’ Jackson said. ‘We’ll chase them later in the day if nothing comes back. In the meantime, introduce Sergeant Copeland to the rest of CID and then to the manor. I’m sure he’ll be a great help to us all.’
You lying bastard, Barnard thought as he closed the door on an anxious looking DCI. You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place and I’m not sure whether I can drag you out or you’ll drag me down with you.
Kate had agreed to meet Harry Barnard at the Blue Lagoon coffee bar after work and had half agreed to go out for a meal with him afterwards. But she was on her second cappuccino, and checking her watch every couple of minutes, before he arrived a good half hour after he had promised.
‘Sorry, sorry, a bad day,’ he said, pushing his hat to the back of his head and making no effort to take his coat off. ‘Do you want to stay here or go somewhere different? After the day I’ve had I’d like a change of scene. Soho’s losing its charm.’
Reckoning she had little choice, Kate pulled her coat off the back of her chair, and stood up. ‘Have you got the car,’ she asked, failing to react to his attempt to kiss her.
‘Parked just outside,’ Barnard said, waving at the red Capri, visible through the steamy windows, with its wheels on the pavement and a taxi driver irately trying to squeeze through the narrow gap which remained. He put an arm round her shoulder and ushered her outside, held the car door open for her and ignored the angry hooting of another driver trying to inch past. He swung into the driving seat and glanced at her briefly.
‘I love you when you get mad,’ he said, and raised a faint smile. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to a very nice Italian I know in Charlotte Street, far enough from the nick and all its works for no one to see us. Will that suit?’
Kate nodded. ‘Are all men as impossible as you?’ she asked, but had to be satisfied with an only marginally shamefaced grin in reply as he weaved the car through the narrow streets of Soho to cross Oxford Street and park eventually outside a bustling restaurant, on a corner which looked as if it was serving food on at least three floors of a tall building.
‘This place is supposed to be authentic Neapolitan,’ he said. ‘Their speciality is pizza. Have you ever had pizza?’ Kate shook her head and Barnard laughed. ‘It’s another world up there in the north, isn’t it? No wonder all these Liverpool bands head down south as quickly as they can.’
Kate pulled a wry face but did not have the heart to argue.
He quickly locked the car and led her into the restaurant where they were soon seated in a small alcove away from the window and faced with a menu listing eighteen different varieties of the mysterious pizza which Kate studied in wonderment. She watched a waiter carrying plates to a neighbouring table.
‘Is that it?’ she asked.
‘It’s like a pastry base, a bit like bread, and then they put all these different toppings on top. You just choose what you like best,’ Barnard explained.
After they had painstakingly ordered their toppings and Barnard had poured her a glass of wine out of a raffia-encased bottle, Kate waited for a moment before picking up her glass, saying nothing.
‘So how was your visit to the Globe?’ Barnard asked at last.
Kate shrugged. ‘Interesting, but the
picture editor wasn’t interested in me. I was a woman – or a girl, as he would put it. But I did get something out of it. I’m going to work with Carter Price taking some pictures he wants on his own account. Ken has agreed I can help him. It will be good experience.’
‘With that fat creep?’ Barnard said. ‘I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him.’
‘That’s because you don’t like crime reporters,’ Kate said. ‘Anyway it’s only a temporary arrangement. He’s doing some investigating that he doesn’t want the picture desk to know about until he’s got a bit further with it. It shouldn’t take long.’
Barnard took a long swig of his wine and lit a cigarette, looking stormy and Kate offered her sweetest smile.
‘Come on. I work for Ken, not you. It’ll be OK. So, stop all this avoiding the issue. Tell me what’s going on with you and why you were late.’
‘Ah, it’s a long story,’ Barnard said quietly. ‘We’ve had a visit at the nick from the top brass who seem to think we’re doing a lousy job, especially in Soho. So they’ve drafted in an extra detective sergeant who’s supposed to be keeping an eye out for infringements of the rules. The problem is he’s a bit of a thug with a reputation for bending the rules himself. My job this afternoon was to give him a guided tour round my patch. I can’t say many of my contacts greeted him with much enthusiasm. I think his reputation had travelled ahead of him. It’s hardly surprising. He was all over the Globe and the rest not long ago.’
‘What has he been up to?’ Kate asked.
‘He’s a bit free with his fists. If a suspect won’t talk he likes to help him to see it our way with a bit more than a few slaps. He worked for the City of London police, so I’ve not met him personally before, but there was one case where he was lucky not to end up in the dock himself. A suspect died in his cell after a session with Copeland. Somehow they got a verdict of misadventure at the inquest and nothing more was done about it but I’m sure that’s why he’s moved on to the Met. I reckon he was pushed out and the Yard were fool enough to take him on. When I took him round it was obvious some of my contacts knew who he was and they weren’t best pleased. He’s trouble.’
Blood Brothers Page 5