‘It’s you,’ she said, holding the door open. ‘I’m very popular this morning. But if it’s Ray you want, duck, you’ve missed him. He left about ten minutes ago.’
‘How are you Ma?’ Barnard asked, stepping straight from the front door into the living room where a coal fire crackled in a grate which had never been modernized.
‘How do you think?’ she snapped back quickly. ‘With Georgie still banged up, like he is.’
‘He may be banged up for much longer if the trial goes against him,’ Barnard ventured.
The expression which crossed the old woman’s face and was gone again almost instantly was fierce in its intensity. ‘We’ll have to see about that,’ she hissed. ‘But I know I’ll get no help from you in spite of all Ray’s done for you.’
‘Ray, maybe,’ Barnard said equably. ‘But not Georgie. You know as well as I do there’s never been any love lost there.’
‘Is that all you came for?’ she asked. ‘To tell me that? As if I didn’t know.’
‘I came to catch up with Ray, but I can tell you what I wanted to say as easily as Ray now I’ve taken the trouble to come so far. I was out last night with some coppers at a party in the City and I picked up a hint that their interest in Ray extends to you too. I think you’re being watched, Ma, so be careful, that’s all. If you’re doing anything you shouldn’t be, I’d pack it in if I were you.’
‘Pah,’ Ma Robertson said contemptuously. ‘They’ll have to get up early in the morning to catch me out.’
Barnard shrugged helplessly, knowing he was wasting his time here. ‘Do you know where Ray’s headed? I really need to talk to him.’
‘I don’t know, duck. I’ve no bloody idea. He doesn’t tell me much these days. He spends too much time on his poncey boxing galas to give me or his brother any help.’
Barnard sighed and turned back to the front door. He could, he thought, make much the same complaint but in his case Ray Robertson’s increasing isolation was a definite plus. This was a time when his relationship with any of the Robertson clan was a liability he could do without.
Back at the nick, after a leisurely stroll round Soho, Barnard reluctantly sought out Vic Copeland who was sitting at his desk looking like a particularly smug cat who had just located a copious source of cream.
‘How’s the hangover?’ he asked Barnard. ‘I told you you’d have a good time.’
Barnard shrugged. ‘It’s improving,’ he said. ‘I’ve had worse. How did you get on with Fred Bettany?’
‘Ah now, there’s an interesting thing,’ Copeland said. ‘He didn’t turn up, did he?’
‘Did he let you know why?’ Barnard asked, a tiny worm of worry intruding into his stomach.
‘Nope,’ Copeland said. ‘And didn’t answer his phone, either. When I asked the plods in North London to take a look they said the house was deserted.’
‘Ray Robertson will know where he is,’ Barnard said, trying to project some confidence into his voice. ‘Bettany’s worked for him for years.’
‘Which is precisely why we need to talk to him,’ Copeland said. ‘If anyone knows where the bodies are buried it will be Fred Bettany. And maybe where people get their toes and fingers lopped off. I’d like to get a warrant to search Robertson’s gym down in Whitechapel. I reckon that’s a thieves’ kitchen at the very least. Maybe worse.’
Barnard shrugged. Copeland, he reckoned, was clutching at straws now. There was no evidence that he could see that the body on the building site had any connection with Ray Robertson at all. ‘So did you make any progress on anything at all this morning?’ he asked irritably. ‘What about the other murder, Nigel Wayland? Anything new there?’
‘I’d other fish to fry this morning, once I realized Fred Bettany had stood me up,’ Copeland said evasively. ‘But I thought we could pop into the queer pub at lunchtime, see if his mate Vincent has turned up there yet. If he doesn’t put in an appearance soon I reckon we should put out a call for him. If one of the shirtlifters is dead and another’s disappeared, chances are the second one is either another corpse or a killer, don’t you reckon? Find Wayland’s mate and we’ve cracked the case for those layabouts in King’s Cross. Simple.’
Barnard shrugged. He had no doubt that for someone with Copeland’s history fitting up Beaufort for Wayland’s murder was all in a day’s work. But he wanted no part of it. ‘Let’s have another look at the gay pub then,’ he said. ‘It can’t do any harm.’
‘And we can have a bevvy while we’re about it,’ Copeland said, getting to his feet. ‘If your hangover will take it, mate. I didn’t have you down as a quitter.’
Kate got back to the Fellows’ agency in mid-afternoon. She took the film out of her camera and shut herself in a dark room to develop her pictures but within minutes she had to stop work because her hands were shaking so much. She sat down on the high stool next to the workbench and put her head in her hands.
She had met Carter Price at nine that morning. ‘Where are we off to today?’ she had asked.
‘I thought we’d take a spin around some of the pubs and caffs in the East End and see if we could get a hint where Smith and Mitch Graveney were headed the other day. Neither of them lives out east and I should think if any of Ray Robertson’s associates saw Smith on their turf there would be trouble. He’d be noticed. They stick to their territories on the whole, these crime gangs. They don’t waste time treading on each other’s toes unless they’re seriously provoked.’
Kate sat thoughtfully for a moment before coming to a decision. ‘I do happen to know that the police are worried about Ray Robertson’s contacts with someone from south of the river.’
‘With Smith, you mean?’ Price’s eyes had lit up when she nodded uncertainly.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you things I’ve picked up from Harry Barnard,’ she had said.
‘Don’t worry about that, petal,’ Price said as he slid the Jag he had turned up in this morning into gear. ‘If anyone ever wants to know, we’ve found that out all by ourselves. As we’ve been following Smith around for days no one could ever prove anything different. And I know Ray Robertson still owns a gym in Whitechapel. We’ll mosey on down there and see what we can pin down.’
It was easy enough to find Robertson’s gym but when they pushed open the door it appeared deserted apart from one rather skinny lad beating a punchbag in one corner to within an inch of its life. He slowed down as Price approached and Kate wrinkled her nose and drew back at the smell of sweat.
‘I’m looking for Ray Robertson,’ Price said with the warmth of an old friend. ‘You haven’t seen him this morning, have you?’
To Kate’s surprise the boy nodded.
‘He was in the office with Rod Miller a while back. They went out together.’
‘Any idea where they were headed?’ Price asked.
‘Nah,’ the boy said. ‘All I heard was Rod telling Ray to give his regards to his Ma. Sounded a funny thing to say.’
Price had pondered for a moment. ‘Is there a phone book in here? I reckon Ma Robertson must be on the phone.’
‘In the office, I reckon,’ the boy said, giving his punchbag another tentative bash and waving in the direction of the glassed off cubbyhole where the paperwork was done.
Price peered through the window before pushing open the door and appropriating one of the hefty volumes of the London phone directory. ‘There,’ he said triumphantly, jabbing at a page. ‘Mrs Dorothy Robertson, in Bethnal Green. I know for a fact she’s known as Dolly. If her son’s gone down there it’s certainly worth a look. But we need to be quick.’
They had hurried back to the car and Price had thrust a London A to Z into Kate’s hands. ‘Find me Alma Street,’ he said, as he swung the Jag recklessly back into the Mile End Road and headed east again and embarked on a nerve-jangling ride, inexpertly navigated by Kate, and culminating at the end of Alma Street where he pulled into the kerb close to the corner and gazed down one of the original terraced streets and obviously
one which had survived the worst the Blitz and the developers could do.
‘Number thirty-three,’ he had said. ‘The one with the green door. The lad at the gym was right. There’s a Jag parked right outside. That must be Robertson’s. Isn’t that touching. The gangster’s come to see his dear old mum. But I’ll put money on it being something more significant than that. Just who else has he come to see?’
Slowly Kate pulled herself together, although her eyes still prickled with tears, and began to develop her film. As she printed each one and hung them up to dry she knew she had a detailed record of Ma Robertson’s succession of visitors that morning. She devoutly wished she hadn’t.
The first print, which Price had carefully timed at nine forty-five, showed Ray Robertson himself coming out of his mother’s house and getting into his car. He had driven away at speed down the narrow street. By ten another car had nosed into Alma Street and Kate had gasped, looking horror-struck.
‘What is it?’ Price had asked sharply.
Her mouth dry Kate had taken a moment to answer. ‘That’s Harry Barnard’s car,’ she said.
‘Well, well, well, of course it is,’ Price breathed. ‘And he’s by himself this time. No one to cover his back. Make bloody sure you get a clear shot of him.’
The red Capri had pulled up outside number thirty-three and reluctantly Kate had taken several shots of it as Barnard got out and knocked on Dolly Robertson’s door.
‘He’s known the whole family since he was a kid,’ she said faintly as the door opened and the sergeant went inside without a backward glance.
‘Not a great qualification for a copper,’ Price had said. ‘Let’s see if anyone else turns up. Maybe he’s meeting someone here, though obviously not Ray.’ Kate had sighed and settled back in her seat again and was immensely relieved when they saw Barnard leave the house, get into his conspicuous red car and pull slowly away as she reluctantly took more shots of his departure.
‘So what does that prove?’ she asked Price defiantly.
‘Nothing at all,’ Price said. ‘Unless we can find out what he came to talk to Dolly Robertson about. And I guess she won’t invite us in to tell us. You may have to prise it out of him yourself.’
Kate had shaken her head at that but now, as she stood gazing down at the picture of Harry getting back into his Capri without, it seemed, a care in the world, she knew she would have to do exactly that for her own peace of mind, regardless of Carter Price.
But their vigil in Alma Street had not ended there. Less than half an hour after Harry Barnard had driven away another car came slowly into the street and pulled up outside number thirty-three.
‘She’s a very busy lady this morning,’ Price said triumphantly. ‘Look who we’ve got here. Not just Reg Smith but Mitch Graveney as well. Now tell me there isn’t something big going down. I reckon someone’s persuaded them to get Georgie Robertson out somehow. A rescue on the way to court, maybe, or just using the law somehow, nobbling the witnesses perhaps.’
He had glanced at her sideways with a questioning look but Kate had looked away. After all that she had seen this morning she had not been prepared to speculate.
The photograph of Smith and Graveney arriving and leaving went up on the line to dry off alongside the rest and Kate cleared away. They had followed the two men when they had driven off about half an hour after arriving and Price seemed convinced no other significant visitors were likely to turn up. Smith had dropped Graveney outside the Globe offices in Fleet Street and this time Price had taken Kate back to the agency to develop her pictures.
‘I’ll call around at five to pick up copies,’ he said and Kate had nodded unenthusiastically. When she had been persuaded to take on the assignment for the Globe she had no idea where it would lead. This, she thought, was the worst possible outcome if Barnard was involved with not one serious criminal but two.
Kate waited impatiently in the Blue Lagoon after work, staring gloomily into her cappuccino. The place had not felt the same since her friend Marie, an aspiring actress filling in time working in the coffee bar, had decided to go back to Liverpool and seek her fortune there. She had often met Harry Barnard here, a regular punctuation in their erratic relationship and maybe today the terminal point.
Harry had never disguised the fact that he cut corners and lined his pockets in Soho, she thought. It was, he said, the way policing worked there and had always worked. The line Kate thought should exist between the criminals and the coppers on the street had, Harry said, always been blurred, the priority to concentrate on the mortal sins rather then the venal, to infiltrate the ever-changing world of pubs and clubs and strip-joints, porn shops and brothels, and learn to distinguish between the myriad of jackals and the dangerous kings of the jungle. Running with the jackals, he said, occasionally brought down the lions. She had believed him because she wanted to, she thought. But she wondered if she could believe him any more.
He came into the coffee bar soon after five, his trench coat slung around his shoulders, his hat pulled over his eyes, as if to try to hide the fact that he looked pale and tense and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. He nodded to Kate and went to the counter to order coffee before taking off his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door and slumping heavily into the seat opposite Kate.
‘How are you doing babe?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘You look shot at.’
He nodded and flashed her the faintest of smiles. ‘Heavy night last night,’ he said. ‘And a lot of hassle today. Everything’s going pear-shaped.’
Kate gazed down at the foam on her coffee and stirred circles in it, transfixed for a moment by the idea that this might be the last time she and Harry Barnard sat here together.
‘Carter Price took me to the East End today,’ she said slowly.
Barnard stiffened but said nothing. ‘We were looking for Ray Robertson. We saw Reg Smith and a printer from the Globe, a bloke called Mitch Graveney who’s something big in the union, heading in that direction the other day but we lost him in the traffic so we don’t know where he was going. But Carter is sure Smith is trying to stitch up a deal with Ray so he decided to have a look at what Ray was doing. A lad at the gym told us he’d gone to see his mother.’
Barnard nodded grimly. ‘So you went to Bethnal Green?’ he asked.
Kate nodded and glanced down at her coffee again.
‘And what did you see?’
‘Ray Robertson’s car was parked outside when we got there but he left just as we arrived. Carter decided to stay there and see if Mrs Robertson had any more visitors.’
‘And of course she did,’ Barnard agreed, his voice flat and his expression unreadable.
‘What were you doing there, Harry?’ Kate asked. ‘Carter’s got you down as part of some conspiracy with Ray Robertson and Reg Smith to do something massive – rob the Bank of England, steal the Crown Jewels, get Georgie out of jail … I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘Why Reg Smith? What’s he got to do with what happened this morning?’ Barnard asked.
‘I told you,’ Kate said. ‘We’ve been following him, taking pictures, and he turned up at Mrs Robertson’s after you left, with Mitch Graveney, a union official from the Globe. Carter reckons he’s on to a cracking story, although he’s not sure what they’re planning yet.’
‘Jesus wept,’ Barnard whispered. ‘And you’ve got photographs of all these comings and goings?’
‘I gave Carter a set of prints when he called round before I left the office. I’ve got the negatives in a safe place.’
‘You realize this could finish me off too?’
‘Why were you there, Harry? What on earth is going on?’ Kate demanded.
‘I wanted to talk to Ray, that’s all. I just missed him at the gym. He’s been telling me for weeks that he wasn’t going to get involved with Smith but he has this crackpot idea that together they could pull off something like another train robbery only without anyone getting caught this t
ime. I’ve told him he’s crazy but I’ve never been sure that he’s taken any notice. Yesterday I discovered that his money man is bailing out and that panicked me. I really wanted to talk to Ray to find out what he’s up to.’ Barnard chose not to mention that, if he failed to find Ray, he wanted to warn Ma Robertson himself about Copeland’s interest in her.
‘Have you tracked Ray down?’ Kate asked.
‘No I haven’t. I don’t know where he’s gone. His mother didn’t know.’ He looked at Kate with desperation in his eyes. ‘Can you persuade Carter Price to leave me out of whatever he’s planning to write?’ he asked quietly.
‘I doubt it,’ Kate said. ‘He doesn’t listen to me. I’m just necessary baggage.’
‘I only stayed five minutes with Ma Robertson, for God’s sake. I’ve known her since I was a kid.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said. ‘I don’t know what I can do.’
Barnard walked slowly across Soho to where he had parked his car. It was beginning to rain and he turned his coat collar up as he brooded on what he began to see as the unravelling of his life. It was ironic, he thought, that the threat was coming from the first woman he had harboured strong feelings about for a very long time. Kate O’Donnell had charmed him from the first time he met her and he had barely realized how far he had let down his guard. He should have seen the threat her camera posed, especially as her photographs had proved useful in previous cases, catching suspects unawares. This time he had been caught unawares himself, and if her pictures were published, which was no doubt what Carter Price intended, he was unlikely to be able to explain them away.
He turned into Regent Street and waited to cross the road when his attention was caught by a small man on the opposite side of the road amongst the crowd waiting to cross towards him. He was muffled in a black raincoat and had a trilby pulled down over his eyes, but Barnard was sure that his eyes were not deceiving him. He waited until the traffic lights changed and then hung back as the oncoming crowd approached. In the resulting melee he made his move and grabbed Vincent Beaufort’s arm in a steely grip.
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