Blood Brothers

by Patricia Hall

  ‘Could he have gone home?’ Tess asked. ‘Back to the north?’

  ‘I don’t think he has a home as such, la,’ Kate said gloomily. ‘As far as I can remember he said he’d been in a children’s home in Doncaster or somewhere. That usually means trouble with the law or with his parents – if he has any. Anyway, he said he ran away because he was being molested and then got into even worse trouble when he arrived in London. People pick kids up at the railway stations, apparently, and put them on the streets. Or worse. He was lucky to get out of that mess alive to give evidence and now it looks like a frying pan and fire job. From bad to worse.’

  ‘Holy Mother,’ Tess said, looking appalled although Kate did not know whether it was on Jimmy Earnshaw’s behalf or hers. Tess had always tended to mother her, both back in Liverpool and when they had come to London as an adventurous threesome with their friend Marie.

  ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?’ Tess asked. ‘It’s up to the police to find him and make a better job of keeping him safe. Surely the trial must be coming up soon, isn’t it?’

  ‘At the Old Bailey but not for at least a month yet, Harry says. If it comes up at all. If they’re really losing witnesses it may never get to court and Georgie Robertson will get away with murder.’

  Tess’s eyes widened but she had no sensible advice to offer her friend. The world Kate had fallen into was a foreign country to her. ‘Sleep on it,’ she had advised, with a helpless look.

  ‘I’ll try,’ Kate said, without any optimism at all.

  And although she had gone to bed early sleep had not come at all till the small hours and even then her dreams were disturbing, full of anger and shouting which she could not understand. She woke early and opened the curtains on to a pale London morning, a grey dawn just breaking, in which some people were already hurrying towards the underground station at just after seven. She decided to have a bath after she persuaded the huge grumbling gas geyser in the bathroom to spurt out some hot water and she was sitting in the kitchen in her dressing gown when Tess eventually emerged from her room fully dressed for school.

  ‘Are you seeing Harry today or going off again with your reporter?’ Tess asked, her face anxious as she made herself toast.

  ‘More photographs for the Globe,’ Kate said without enthusiasm. ‘I can’t really see what we’re trying to prove with all these pictures but Carter Price seems pleased with progress so that’s all that matters really. As far as I’m concerned it’s the most boring assignment I’ve had so far, sitting in a car all day waiting for something to happen.’

  ‘Well, at least I suppose you’re pretty safe sitting in a car,’ Tess observed quietly. ‘I do worry about you, you know.’

  Kate smiled wanly. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But at least I can tell Carter Price today that Harry’s visit to Blackheath was official, part of his murder investigation. And he was with the new sergeant he’s working with who’s certainly not his best friend. I don’t want to be stuck in the middle if Carter decides to chase after him.’

  When Tess had stuffed her bag with exercise books that she had marked the night before and set off to catch a bus to Holland Park, Kate made herself another cup of coffee and rang Harry Barnard’s home number. He picked up quickly and sounded faintly disappointed by the sound of her voice.

  ‘I’m just going to work,’ Kate said huffily. ‘I thought I’d check if you had any news of Jimmy.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Barnard said. ‘I’ve asked my contact at the Yard to make discreet inquiries. I thought this call might be her.’

  ‘I’d better get off the line then,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll be out with Carter Price most of the day I think, but I should get back to the agency this afternoon to print up my pics. You can get me there if you want to talk.’

  ‘Fine,’ Barnard said and hung up.

  ‘I think we’ll just have a little mosey around this morning,’ Carter Price said. ‘See if Reg Smith is at home again and follow him if he goes out.’

  Price was driving a white Mini this morning, the first time Kate had got anywhere close to this new model which had caused a sensation for the first few months of its life. He looked bulky and slightly ill at ease in the confined space.

  ‘It’s quite tiny, isn’t it?’ she said, feeling vulnerable as Price twisted his way through the heavy traffic on the New Kent Road, the lorries looming above them like whales beside a shrimp. ‘They won’t catch on, will they? It feels as if you’re almost sitting on the road.’

  ‘Not enough power,’ Price said, tailing behind a double-decker bus impatiently. ‘I’ll be very surprised if they sell many of them.’

  They parked again a discreet distance from Smith’s gates and waited – and waited. Price occupied himself reading the Globe from cover to cover while Kate could do nothing except stare out of the windscreen, her camera on her lap and her frustration steadily mounting.

  ‘Cheer up, darling,’ Price said. ‘I’ll treat you to dinner tonight, if you like. I know this is as boring as watching paint dry but if we can pin this beggar down it’ll be worth every minute. Here.’ He passed her his paper and she began to read steadily through it without even bothering to react to his invitation.

  It was not the first time he had made the proposal and so far she had persistently declined, but after this morning she thought she might take him up on it. There had to be some sort of reward for this dreadful assignment and it would annoy Harry Barnard, who deserved some sort of reaction to his brusqueness earlier this morning. An evening out with Carter Price might be an appropriate punishment. She guessed a good meal would go on his claim as a business expense somehow. She had watched her photographer colleagues filling in their expenses with an astonishing degree of imagination and knew that Fleet Street would – and did – trump them at every turn.

  Kate’s patience had begun to seriously fray when, just before twelve, Reg Smith’s car emerged from his gates and he set off as before down the hill towards Lewisham, without apparently even glancing in their direction. A new Mini might be an object of interest to most people but not, evidently, to someone who drove a Bentley.

  ‘The Angel again, do you think?’ Price said as they followed. But this time Smith headed for central London, past the Elephant and Castle and over Waterloo Bridge before turning right into Fleet Street.

  ‘Where the hell is he going?’ Price asked as they passed Temple Bar into the City of London.

  The answer was not long in coming. Smith swung his car to the kerb and parked immediately outside the Globe building, got out amid furious hoots from a black cab, and went inside. Price pulled up behind him.

  ‘Can you see where he’s going?’ he asked Kate.

  She peered out of the passenger window and through the glass doors of the newspaper office into the extensive marbled foyer. ‘He’s talking to someone in there,’ she said. ‘They’re coming out I think.’

  ‘They both watched as the two men left the building and got into Smith’s car.

  ‘Mitch Graveney again,’ Price said, evidently amazed. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  He swung the Mini into the traffic stream again but the road was busy and by the time they had reached Ludgate Circus there was no sign of the car they were following. Price waited at the traffic lights and peered left and right but Smith and Graveney had effectively disappeared.

  ‘Damn and blast,’ Price grumbled. ‘He could have gone back south of the river over the bridge, or north towards Smithfield or straight on to St Paul’s and God knows where after that. We’ve lost him, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s not turning out to be a very productive day, is it,’ Kate muttered.

  ‘Did you get a shot of the two of them coming out?’ Price asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, I think I’ll go back to the office, and see if I can get a clue as to why one of the Globe’s union officials is swanning round London with a major gangster. You, my dear, might as well go back to the agency. We’ll
call it a day on pictures for now.’ He swung the small car in a tight U-turn and headed back towards the Strand. ‘I’ll drop you here,’ he said, stopping outside Somerset House. ‘You can pick up a bus back to the West End.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, la,’ Kate muttered as she opened the car door, but Price seemed oblivious to her sarcasm.

  ‘I’ll call you later to talk about tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Or maybe a meal tonight?’

  Kate slammed the car door without answering. Harry Barnard could be annoying, she thought, but he was not in the same league as this bloody fat man.

  It turned out that by the end of the afternoon Harry Barnard did want to talk to Kate again. He tracked her down at the agency just after four and took her out for coffee.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting tonight with one of the lawyers putting together the prosecution case against Georgie Robertson,’ he said. ‘Strictly off the record. You know I’m out on a limb here. I’m meeting her for a drink in Highgate later. Can you come with me?’

  ‘Why?’ Kate asked, puzzled.

  ‘Protection, really,’ Barnard said quietly. ‘If anyone sees us together I can claim it was just a chance social meeting if you’re with me. We popped into the Flask for a drink before going out for a meal. We can do that too if you like. But I need to know what’s going on with the case against Georgie. If it’s really falling apart why aren’t we looking for missing witnesses? In other words, what the hell’s happening?’

  Kate hesitated for only a moment. ‘Will she know if Jimmy Earnshaw’s really missing?’ she asked.

  ‘She should do,’ Barnard said. ‘That’s what the prosecution lawyers are there for. And she sounded a bit worried when I spoke to her on the phone. She was happy enough to have a meeting.’

  ‘All right,’ Kate agreed. ‘Will you pick me up at the office?’

  ‘Five thirty,’ Barnard said. ‘You’re a doll.’ He gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  ‘No,’ Kate said sharply. ‘I’m not.’

  The Flask stood on a corner site in the centre of Highgate village, an old pub with empty tables on its forecourt on a dark and chilly evening but already crowded indoors when Barnard and Kate arrived. There was comfortable fug inside as they peered through the hazy cigarette smoke swirling under the low nicotine stained ceiling looking for Barnard’s contact.

  ‘There she is,’ he said eventually indicating a pale, anxious-looking young woman in a dark coat, her hair pulled back severely from a face with little make-up, blue eyes shaded by a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. The table in front of her was bare.

  He made his way through the crowd of drinkers with Kate close behind.

  ‘Ruth,’ he said. ‘It was good of you to come. This is my friend Kate O’Donnell who was involved in the Georgie Robertson case. You’ll have seen her witness statement, no doubt. Kate, Ruth Michelmore.’

  The two women eyed each other somewhat warily for a moment.

  ‘Can I get you both a drink?’ Barnard asked and when they had made their choices he went to the bar to order.

  Kate sat down opposite the lawyer.

  ‘You were the one who caught up with Jimmy Earnshaw, weren’t you?’ Ruth asked.

  Kate nodded. That was a night which still caused her to wake up from her dreams occasionally soaked in sweat and paralysed with fear.

  Barnard came back and put two G and T’s in front of the women and took a sip of the foam on his pint before sitting down.

  ‘Kate is indirectly responsible for us having a case against Georgie Robertson at all,’ he said.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Ruth Michelmore said. ‘Of course. I knew I recognized the name.’

  ‘But my worry is that we’re not keeping Jimmy, and the other witnesses, as safe as we should be,’ Barnard insisted. ‘Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘I haven’t seen any of them recently,’ Ruth Michelmore said. ‘But then I’m only a junior cog in the machine. But my bosses should have been talking to them and all I’ve picked up from them over the last couple of weeks is a general worry and a few angry phone calls to the Yard. I don’t know what’s going on but I get the impression that it’s something bad.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to know that we think Jimmy Earnshaw is missing from his safe house? Jimmy and maybe the old tramp Hamish Macdonald?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me at all,’ Ruth said soberly. ‘It would fit with the worries I’ve been having. Hamish might have gone looking for a drink, of course. He could be out on a bender. But the boy? What is he? Fourteen? Fifteen? Why would he run off? And where would he go if he did?’

  ‘He came from somewhere up north,’ Kate said.

  ‘I wonder if they managed to make contact again and they’ve gone off together,’ said Ruth. ‘Jimmy regarded Hamish as his only friend in London. He didn’t trust anyone else, including the police and the lawyers.’

  ‘If they’ve both gone you’ll have a hard time making the case against Georgie stick, won’t you?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘Too true,’ the lawyer agreed. ‘So who wants the case to collapse do you think? Georgie’s brother? Is it a family loyalty thing?’

  ‘Not likely,’ Barnard said sharply. ‘Ray Robertson wants Georgie put away even more than we do, believe me. I’ve known the two of them since I was a kid in the East End and there’s never been much love lost there.’

  ‘Ah, that explains why an alleged mate of his, the trainer at his gym, has been put on to the list of potential witnesses too. I thought it was odd, but maybe I’ve got the brothers’ relationship wrong.’

  ‘Who is it? Rod Miller? There’s a couple of blokes help out at the gym,’ Barnard said.

  ‘I think that was the name.’

  ‘Rod will say whatever Ray tells him to say, but a good defence lawyer might make mincemeat of him in the witness box,’ Barnard said thoughtfully. ‘He’s no substitute for the two who seem to be missing.’

  ‘Well, if we’ve lost some of the major witnesses we may have to move on the secondary ones. Maybe you too, Miss O’Donnell,’ the lawyer said.

  Kate shuddered slightly, knowing that to face Georgie Robertson at the Old Bailey was the last thing she wanted to do.

  ‘Is Georgie Robertson a queer?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘I’ve no evidence for that, though he did have some contacts who frequent the queer pub in Soho,’ Barnard said. ‘I always thought it was because there might have been a few blokes there who enjoyed the services he was providing. He’s got no form.’

  ‘I heard some talk of a man called Vincent Beaufort possibly being useful to the prosecution case. But he’s not on the official list of prosecution witnesses that I’ve seen.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure Vincent isn’t into boys, but he may have heard something relevant I suppose. That pub’s a hive of gossip. Do you want me to talk to him?’

  ‘Could be helpful, maybe,’ the lawyer said. She glanced at Barnard warily for a moment. ‘The other thing I wondered is whether Georgie Robertson is a Freemason?’ she asked carefully. ‘Or are you, for that matter? In which case you probably won’t tell me.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Barnard said, looking angry. ‘And I don’t think Georgie is, as far as I know. But as you must realize, they’re a secretive bunch. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just that if you’re a woman in legal circles you soon become aware that an awful lot of lawyers are. And coppers too, I’m told. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s best to know just who is and who isn’t. They talk about being on the square but as far as I can see it’s more like wheels within wheels going round in some very dubious circles. If you’re to survive, you need to know what connections the men have. If Georgie Robertson is a mason, he’ll have a few friends in high places, I guess.’

  Barnard nodded. ‘A lot of coppers are involved. People have tried to persuade me to join, told me I’ll never get promotion if I don’t, but I can’t be bothered with secret societies.’

  ‘Well, if you’re not eligible, like me, maybe you never do get pr
omotion,’ Ruth said bitterly. She laughed. ‘I get that feeling. But you’d not find many women wanting to wear a pinny for fun when they wear them most of the time at home. And a lot of legal men think that’s what we should all be doing, that’s all we’re good for.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Kate said.

  ‘It’s a lot more than a bit of fun in a pinny and a nice meal after,’ Barnard said, looking gloomy. ‘From what I’m told quite a few dodgy characters join thinking it’s some sort of insurance because there are so many coppers involved. But not the Robertson brothers, as far as I know.’

  ‘So if his brother doesn’t want him to get off, who else might like to see Georgie Robertson on the loose again?’ Ruth asked. ‘Who else might be trying to interfere with the witnesses?’

  ‘Apart from his mother, I can’t think of anyone,’ Barnard said.

  ‘His mother?’ Ruth sounded surprised. ‘Could his mother try to derail the trial, do you think? Surely she must be too old.’

  ‘Ma Robertson is a little white-haired old lady who looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,’ Barnard said. ‘But she always doted on Georgie, her baby, and when push comes to shove she’s as tough as old boots. So it’s not impossible, I suppose. When her husband was alive she was in there with the best of them but I don’t know how fresh her contacts are in criminal circles now. I think Ray’s got most of the East End gangsters sewn up and he won’t lift a finger to help Georgie. I don’t think his mother could do anything without his say-so. And springing witnesses from police protection takes some serious organization.’

  ‘You sound as if you’ve already been looking for Jimmy Earnshaw and Hamish,’ Ruth said.

  Barnard hesitated for only a moment. ‘I think Hamish might be dead,’ he said quietly.

  Ruth Michelmore froze. ‘What makes you think that?’ she asked.