Blood Brothers

by Patricia Hall

  ‘We’ve an unidentified body,’ he said. ‘Found on a building site. No one reported anyone missing, but then if it was Hamish, no one would. No one would know he’d gone except his minders at the Yard and they’re not saying a dicky bird, for reasons I don’t understand.’

  ‘I don’t like this one bit,’ Ruth said. ‘I’ll ask my boss if I can talk to both the witnesses again. I’ll have to go through him. I can’t ask the Yard direct. But if I get a dusty answer I’ll let you know. Let’s keep in touch, Sergeant Barnard. I’m getting a very bad feeling about all this.’ She pulled on her thick coat, wound a wool scarf round her neck and got up. ‘You’ll keep an eye open for the boy as well?’ she asked.

  ‘You bet,’ Barnard said. ‘Call me at home if you need to, not at the nick. I’m not sure who I can trust there.’ He gave her his number and when she had gone he and Kate finished their drinks in silence.

  ‘Come back to my place,’ Barnard said. ‘I need to change, then we’ll go out for a meal.’

  Kate sighed and nodded. She felt unsettled and uneasy now about her own situation as well as Jimmy Earnshaw’s. She had not dreamed she might have to give evidence and hated the idea with a passion. ‘Do you think anyone would try to stop me giving evidence?’ she asked as they got back into Harry’s car for the short drive down Highgate Hill.

  ‘I don’t think so, do you? What you know isn’t exactly crucial, just circumstantial. Without Jimmy and Hamish the case will fall apart.’

  When they got back to the flat Barnard made no amorous advances. He shut himself in his bedroom to change while Kate flipped through his record collection and spun round aimlessly in his revolving chair.

  When he came back he put his arm round her. ‘Stop worrying,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’re in any danger.’ Before she could reply, the phone rang and she watched him tense as he listened to whoever was at the other end. ‘Thanks,’ he said briefly. ‘I’ll see if we can find him.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Kate asked.

  ‘It was the vicar at St Peter’s. You remember him? David Hamilton who runs the refuge for kids on the street? He says one of the boys he’s looking after at the moment saw Jimmy Earnshaw, actually saw him and spoke to him. He said Jimmy was very frightened and told him he was getting out of London as soon as he had the train fare. I don’t like that, Kate, I really don’t. The first place anyone looking for him would go would be to the stations. They know he came from the north. They might guess he’d go back there. Though what he imagines he’s going back to I can’t imagine. From what he told us about his previous background he’d be jumping from the frying pan back into the fire, I should think.’

  ‘Doncaster, wasn’t it?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I’ll call social services there in the morning,’ Barnard said. ‘See if they’ve seen him. And take a swing round King’s Cross. There are places in the back streets round that old dump you could hide an army.’

  ‘Why isn’t there an army of coppers out looking for him anyway?’ Kate asked angrily. ‘What the devil’s going on, Harry?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Barnard said. ‘But believe me, I intend to find out. Come on. Let’s put all this out of our heads and enjoy ourselves for this evening at least.’

  But Kate thought that in the circumstance that might prove quite hard.

  NINE

  When Sergeant Harry Barnard got to the nick the next morning he found Vic Copeland sitting at his desk with a self-satisfied look on his face.

  ‘I thought you should know,’ Copeland said.

  ‘Know what?’ Barnard snapped back.

  ‘I’ve just got the OK from Jackson to bring Ray Robertson in for a formal chat,’ Copeland said, leaning back in his chair with a grin. ‘That beggar is running rings round this manor as far as I can see.’

  ‘Are you going to do the same with Reg Smith? Or the Maltese?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘Nah, waste of time. It’s a Robertson on trial and I reckon a Robertson trying to get him off. No question.’

  ‘I take it I won’t be invited to join the party,’ Barnard said.

  ‘Dead right, mate.’ Copeland got up and pulled on his coat. ‘See you later though,’ he said. ‘Promise you that.’

  Barnard swallowed hard and followed Vic Copeland out but while Copeland headed for the front office, no doubt to assemble some uniformed troops to go with him to bring Robertson in, Barnard headed to the DCI’s office and knocked on the door. Summoned inside he met a distinctly unfriendly stare from the opposite side of Keith Jackson’s immaculate desk.

  ‘Yes?’ Jackson snapped.

  Barnard affected to look as innocent as possible. ‘I thought you might want to fill me in on what Copeland’s planning to question Ray Robertson about, guv,’ he said. ‘I do know him quite well. I thought I might be able to help.’

  ‘You know him far too well,’ Jackson said. ‘You are part of the problem that AC Amis has identified. Not that he really needed to. I’ve been aware of it ever since I walked through the door of this nick. You’re not the only one, or even the worst, perhaps. We’ll see in the fullness of time. But the AC wants to see some action and Ray Robertson is as good a place for Copeland to start as any.’

  Barnard thought he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. ‘The trouble is, guv, that if you destabilize the present situation you could end up with something significantly worse,’ he said. ‘Robertson and the Maltese have reached an accord which has kept violence off the streets in Soho for a year or more. If you take either one of them out you can be sure that someone else – Reg Smith perhaps – will try to break in and there’ll be a gang war. And that could be much, much worse. That’s the way innocent punters don’t just get ripped off, they get hurt.’

  ‘That’s the pessimistic view, sergeant, and it’s one which the AC and I believe is totally defeatist. What you’re saying is that we go along with the status quo for a quiet life for fear of something worse. That is not the policy of the Metropolitan Police and the sooner officers like you get to grips with that the better for all of us, especially the law-abiding citizens of the West End of London. Pandering to these gangsters leads to corruption all round and Mr Amis will not stand for it.’

  ‘No chance of sitting in on the interview with Ray Robertson, I suppose, guv?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘No chance,’ DCI Jackson said. ‘Carry on, sergeant.’

  The phrase threw Barnard back to his days of national service and he shuddered slightly at the memory. ‘Sir,’ he said, almost saluting and spinning on his heel to leave the room with distinctly military precision. He wondered what exact part Keith Jackson had played in the forces. The imprint was certainly indelible.

  Back in the CID office he put his coat on and walked out into Regent Street and found a phone box. Fred Bettany’s secretary answered promptly and put him through quickly.

  ‘Fred,’ Barnard said without identifying himself. He was sure the accountant would know his voice. ‘Ray’s in trouble. Vic Copeland’s planning to haul him into the nick for a going over. Can you make sure his brief is there? And could you pass on a message from me? Tell him I’ll call in at the gym about six. I need to talk to him. OK? That’s assuming they don’t arrest him.’

  There was a silence at the other end.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Bettany said eventually.

  ‘Not now, mate,’ Barnard said and hung up.

  For the rest of the morning he followed his usual routine, keeping his finger on the pulse of Soho, meeting useful contacts, chatting up the street girls as they emerged towards lunchtime from their flats, bleary-eyed and un-made-up, saving what charms they still possessed for the arrival of clients much later in the day. But he kept his fingers out of anyone’s till and ended up at lunchtime with a visit to the queer pub which had already attracted a substantial clientele. One or two looked up warily as Barnard walked in but relaxed when they recognized him.

  The knot of anxiety which had tightened his stomach since he had absorbed the
implications of Vic Copeland’s plans was still there, but he knew if he tried to intervene in any way at the nick his career would be immediately on the line. If it wasn’t already, he thought as he approached the bar and ordered a half pint, leaning back against the mahogany, glass in hand, assessing with sharp eyes who was there while trying to look his normal relaxed self. He turned back to the barman eventually.

  ‘Has Vincent Beaufort been in yet?’ he asked. ‘I need a word.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of days, Harry,’ the barman said. ‘Do you want me to give him a message?’

  A sharp shiver of alarm ran up Barnard’s spine. Beaufort lived to flaunt himself and for him to be absent from Soho’s streets and bars was distinctly unusual. ‘Do you know where he’s living now?’ he asked.

  The barman shrugged. ‘I heard he had a new boyfriend but I’ve no idea where they hang out.’

  ‘If you see either of them can you ask them to get in touch?’ Barnard said, telling himself that his sense that something was not right was in no way justified by the facts. But he did not convince himself. He finished his drink and walked slowly back to the nick to be met in the front office by the alarming sight of Ray Robertson himself, being helped towards the door by a tall man in a dark suit he half recognized as one of the lawyers who found it lucrative to work for Robertson’s varied enterprises. Robertson’s face was bruised and there was a cut above his right eye as if, in a reprise of his early career, he had just left the boxing ring defeated.

  Robertson caught sight of Barnard in the doorway and directed a snarl in his direction. ‘What the hell’s going on, Flash?’ he hissed. ‘That’s what I’d like to know. What the bloody hell is going on?’

  Barnard nodded in the direction of the two men but said nothing as he passed them and paused at the main desk where a chubby sergeant was watching the scene with avid interest. ‘What the hell happened to him?’ Barnard asked quietly as the two men vanished down the steps outside.

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘The official story from Vic Copeland is that Robertson lost his rag and threw a punch when they invited him down to the nick, so Vic threw a few back. He’s been in an interview room with Copeland and the DCI most of the morning and been bailed with a charge of resisting arrest.’

  ‘And the unofficial story?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘Well you know Copeland’s rep,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’m damn sure he wasn’t as battered when he came in as he is now going out, so I leave it to your imagination. His solicitor didn’t arrive till about half an hour ago so they had him on their own for a fair length of time. The solicitor’s playing merry hell.’

  Barnard nodded. Nothing the sergeant told him surprised him but he knew that he was on a hiding to nothing if he tried to interfere. He made his way into the interior of the building and headed for the custody sergeant’s office. The officer on duty did not seem too pleased to see him, perhaps suspecting that he wanted to talk about Ray Robertson’s treatment, but Barnard had something else entirely in mind.

  ‘Has a queer called Vince Beaufort been brought in over the last couple of days?’ he asked. ‘Small bloke, flamboyant dresser, could have been done for cottaging, soliciting, any of that.’

  The sergeant visibly relaxed. ‘Don’t think so,’ he said, flicking through pages of records quickly. ‘Has he got a record?’

  ‘I think he’s done time once or twice, for the usual,’ Barnard said. ‘I wanted a little chat but the word is he hasn’t been seen on his usual haunts for a few days. It seemed a bit odd. He’s not exactly the retiring type.’

  ‘Some of them flaunt it,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’d have their balls off if it were me.’

  ‘Sounds a bit drastic,’ Barnard said lightly, though there was no humour in his eyes. He spun on his heel, made his way out of the nick and into the nearest pub, where he ordered a double scotch.

  The Red Lion was a small dark pub down one of the narrow alleys off Fleet Street which led downhill to the river Thames.

  Carter Price led the way from the Globe building where he and Kate had met that morning and pushed open the door for her. ‘This is the Globe’s pub,’ he said. ‘You find out all the gossip in here.’

  The lounge was already busy and Price had to wait to get served at the bar and they only found an empty table after a hunt in the darker regions at the back of the room.

  ‘The printers tend to come in early,’ he said. ‘Then at lunchtime this might as well be the newsroom, except for those who prefer El Vino down the road. A bit more exclusive down there. The theatre critics from the posh papers hold court but you’ll not get served if you’re a woman. You have to sit still and wait for the men to bring you something.’

  ‘You’re joking, la,’ Kate said.

  ‘I’m certainly not,’ Price insisted. ‘I’ll take you there one day, but today I’m keen to talk to Mitch Graveney’s mates, see if we can find out how the hell he knows Reg Smith so well.’

  Kate raised an eyebrow and sipped her tomato juice. It felt too early in the day to join Price on the hard stuff. They sat in silence for a while watching a succession of blue-overalled printers come in and out for a quick drink.

  ‘First edition of the evening paper’s just gone,’ Price said glancing at his watch. It was nine thirty. ‘Some of them get a break after that.’

  Most of the printers glanced in Price’s direction, flashed appraising glance at Kate, raised an eyebrow and then ignored the pair of them. But eventually one of the men coming in waved a hand in their direction. ‘Can I get you another, Carter?’ he asked. ‘And your lady friend?’

  ‘Double scotch, and a tomato juice,’ Price said quickly.

  After a few minutes, the man came back with their drinks and a pint for himself and pulled up a stool to their table.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ he asked, giving Kate a flashing smile.

  ‘Pete Archer, Kate O’Donnell. Kate’s helping me with a story I’m working on,’ Price said airily.

  ‘Very nice too,’ Archer said before taking a long drink from his foaming glass. ‘I wish I could summon up a dishy assistant out of thin air like you do.’

  ‘She’s not an assistant, she’s a photographer.’

  Archer gave a low whistle and looked surprised. ‘Not looking for a staff job, is she?’ he asked. ‘Bill Kenyon must be going soft in his old age.’

  ‘I’ve met Bill Kenyon,’ Kate said sharply. ‘He’s living in the dark ages as far as women are concerned.’

  Archer and Price laughed loudly.

  ‘Well I’ll bet Carter here a fiver that we don’t see a female photographer here in the next ten years.’

  ‘You’re on,’ Price said complacently. ‘I’ve told her to be satisfied with the job she’s got. And it’ll be twenty years before you printers let a woman near a machine. Mitch Graveney would do his nut at the very thought.’

  ‘It’s very like typing,’ Kate said, thinking of the Linotype operators she had seen at their keyboards. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘You’ll get us drummed out of here if anyone hears you committing heresy like that,’ Price said and it was clear he was only half joking. ‘Which reminds me, I saw Mitch in a pub south of the river the other day. You live in Lewisham, don’t you? I don’t think he noticed me but I was a bit surprised at the company he was keeping. Do you know a bloke called Reg Smith? Some sort of big shot in that area, not necessarily legit, you know what I mean?’

  Archer looked uneasy for a moment but then his face cleared. ‘Ah yes, I know what it would be,’ he said. ‘I’m not on the square myself. Brought up a Catholic, I was, and they don’t like that sort of thing. But I know Mitch is a mason and someone told me Smith was something big in one of the local lodges. Worshipful something or other, don’t they call it. They’re probably in the same lodge. Mitch Graveney lives in Lee Green which isn’t far away. You can bet your life they’ll be wearing pinnies together and scratching each other’s backs the rest of the time. Y
ou know how it is?’

  ‘That explains it,’ Price said easily. ‘So who’s going to win the Chelsea game on Saturday? It’s going to be a tight one, isn’t it?’

  Archer shrugged. ‘Don’t have much time for football myself,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an allotment. That keeps me out of the wife’s way at weekends. Anyway, I’ve got to get back. We’re short-handed today. Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck didn’t turn up.’ He finished his drink in one, grinned and left them, leaving Kate looking bemused.

  ‘Was he serious?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Price said. ‘You don’t get a printer’s job in Fleet Street unless your dad and your grandad had one before you. The unions see to that. And it’s not unknown for them to add a few fictional characters to the payroll. It’s one of those custom and practice issues. If the management query it the presses stop rolling and a day or night’s paper goes down the tubes. No paper, no income, QED.’

  ‘Isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘It’s industrial relations, dear,’ Price said. ‘Not pretty but it’s been going on for years. And I can’t see anyone sorting it any time soon. Come on, let’s go back to Smith’s place and see what we can see. Later I’ll see if I can find out which lodge those bastards are frequenting. And if you’re very good I’ll treat you to dinner later.’

  ‘I’ve got a date tonight,’ Kate said, not for the first time, thinking of Harry Barnard and finding that option preferable to Carter Price’s hospitality, which she was quite sure came with strings.

  The evening did not turn out quite as Kate expected. She had returned to the agency soon after lunch when Carter Price had got tired of sitting outside Reg Smith’s house, which this morning appeared deserted.

  ‘You might as well go back to the office and print up everything we’ve got so far,’ Price had said grumpily. ‘I need to have a quiet chat with some of my Masonic contacts and see if I can find out exactly what connections there are between Smith and Graveney. It may be just coincidence. I can’t see what Mitch is going to get out of palling up with a gangster like Smith but maybe he’s got something Smith wants, information most likely. Maybe he’s got wind that I’ve got him in my sights.’