Praise for Derek Raymond’s
Factory Series
“No one claiming interest in literature truly written from the edge of human experience, no one wondering at the limits of the crime novel and of literature itself, can overlook these extraordinary books.”
—JAMES SALLIS
“A pioneer of British noir … No one has come near to matching his style or overwhelming sense of madness … he does not strive for accuracy, but achieves an emotional truth all his own.”
—THE TIMES (LONDON)
“The beautiful, ruthless simplicity of the Factory novels is that Raymond rewrites the basic ethos of the classic detective novel.”
—CHARLES TAYLOR, THE NATION
“A sulphurous mixture of ferocious violence and high-flown philosophy.”
—PROSPECT
“A mixture of thin-lipped Chandleresque backchat and of idioms more icily subversive.”
—OBSERVER
“Hellishly bleak and moving.”
—NEW STATESMAN
“He writes beautifully, and his sincerity cannot be faulted.”
—EVENING STANDARD
“Raw-edged, strong and disturbing stuff.”
—THE SCOTSMAN
DEREK RAYMOND was the pseudonym of British writer Robert “Robin” Cook, who was born in London in 1931. The son of a textile magnate, he dropped out of Eton and rejected a life of privilege for a life of adventure. He traveled the world, living in Paris at the Beat Hotel and on New York’s seedy Lower East Side, smuggled artworks into Amsterdam, and spent time in a Spanish prison for publicly making fun of Franco. Finally, he landed back in London, working in the lower echelons of the Kray Brothers’ crime syndicate laundering money, organizing illegal gambling, and setting up insurance scams. He eventually took to writing—first as a pornographer, but then as an increasingly serious novelist, writing about the desperate characters and experiences he’d known in London’s underground. His work culminated in the Factory novels, landmarks that have led many to consider him the founding father of British noir. He died in London in 1994.
The Devil’s Home on Leave
First published in 1985 in Great Britain by Secker & Warburg
© 1984 Estate of Robin William Arthur Cook
This edition published by arrangement with Serpent’s Tail
Melville House Publishing
145 Plymouth Street
Brooklyn, NY 11201
www.mhpbooks.com
eISBN: 978-1-61219-014-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011932388
v3.1
For Peter and Honor Mochan
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
‘Les mois d’avril sont meurtriers.’
1
I knocked at a second-floor flat in a dreary house, one of two hundred in a dreary Catford street.
After a while I heard steps the other side of the door. ‘McGruder?’
‘Who’s that?’ said a man’s voice. ‘Who wants him?’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘Open up. Police.’
2
Later, I knew the following. At half past seven on the cold, sunny evening of Wednesday, April 13th, Billy McGruder went up to a passer-by in Hammersmith.
‘Excuse me, mate. You know a pub called the Nine Foot Drop?’
‘The Drop? Sure. You cross over the Broadway here, go up King Street, turn out of Ravenscourt Road into Tofton Avenue and it’s on the right. Ten-minute walk. You can’t miss it – great barracks of a place.’
‘Thanks.’
When McGruder got in there everything had gone fine – sweet as a nut. The solid man in his blue blazer was there all right, scanning newcomers through a mirror that covered the entrance. His back turned to Billy, he shifted on his stool at the bar to show that he had seen him and Billy, standing next to him for a moment to order, got a sweet cider and carried it over to the table that had been agreed on. Once Billy was settled, the man in the blazer – villain’s scar across his left ear – nodded across the bar at a man sitting alone at a table under a window with a raincoat over his shoulders.
This man was ageless and thin, with the bright, uneasy face of a stoat. His pale eyes blinked under colourless lashes, never still in his head which jerked on its thin neck, the prominent Adam’s apple throbbing nervously up at his chin. At times the man’s shoulders twitched under the mac with the quick gestures of a bird undecided whether to stay or fly with the fine-honed instinct of the weak, forever attuned to danger. He looked smart in a way to suit his thinness; he wore high, expensive boots, brown and polished bright – ninety quid’s worth easy – and a corduroy cap, clipper style, at an angle half to the back, half to the side of his head, favouring his lifeless, gingery hair. A third of a pint of beer stood in front of him, a mess of foam trailing down the inside of the glass. Billy pushed his cider away; he hardly ever drank. He lit a cigarette, drew on it three times and put it out. He didn’t smoke; it was just the sign that he had understood all right who the target was.
Billy was very careful to be precise about the agreed signs. There was money in this job, fifteen hundred pounds; so naturally he didn’t want to make a mess of it.
He didn’t look near the target again. He knew who it was now, and that was enough. Indeed, Billy seldom looked directly at anyone; when he did, it meant that it was already too late for the person.
After a little while, the stout young man got up to go. In doing so, he left two keys on a ring behind him on the bar.
‘Night, Tony.’
‘Night, squire! Night, Merrill!’
If Tony Williams, the governor, who was standing behind his bar looking benevolent and polishing a glass, noticed that the keys had been left there he gave no sign of it – and when Billy, getting up to go to the gents, swept them casually into his pocket as he went by, the governor happened to have his back turned. No one else at the bar remarked on the incident, even if they noticed it. It didn’t pay to notice things in the Nine Foot Drop.
When Billy got to the gents, pungent with the smell of disinfectant, he went on past the splashback into the single cubicle and locked the door. He took the keys out of one pocket, a pair of thin gloves out of another, and put the gloves on. He rubbed the keys thoroughly and looked at the paper tag attached to the ring. He memorized the car registration number, tore the tag off, shredded it, dropped the pieces into the bowl and pulled the chain. He didn’t bother c
hecking his other gear. He’d done all that before leaving for this rendezvous; he had everything he needed with him in a briefcase which he never lost sight of. He had it with him now.
He went back to the bar, strolled to a window, and looked out to check that the car whose plates corresponded to the number he had memorized was parked outside. In the bar everything was as it had been, except that someone else had taken the solid man’s place at the Kronenbourg pump. The target was still sitting at his table all right, Billy saw, and that was going to be just too bad for the target. Women in the place looked at Billy admiringly, taking him for the spruce young businessman with the executive briefcase that he appeared to be. They couldn’t know that within less than an hour he would be stripped naked, carefully removing and preparing everything that he had in his case. They couldn’t know what he had in it.
Billy wondered if after all his man was waiting for somebody real; it could complicate matters if he were. Billy had been told definitely that he wouldn’t be – that a moody meet had been arranged for the target where the other man wouldn’t show. But you never knew. Using the mirrors, therefore, Billy watched while the target picked up his glass and turned it, as if undecided whether to have another. He went on watching until the target made up its mind, drained the glass suddenly and stood up.
3
Someone once asked me why I ever became a copper, never mind why I stayed on for fifteen years. I told him about the woman I found one night on the M1. It was early days. I was just a uniformed constable then, working out of Watford on patrol car duty. My place was next to the driver; the CID man was in the back. It was dreadful weather in late autumn. The rain was pissing down on a north wind, and we were cruising up to the Bedford turn-off, the end of our stretch, well below the legal limit because the motorway was flooded in places.
Then I saw what looked like a bundle of rags over on the hard shoulder. ‘Jam them on,’ I said to the driver. ‘Go on, hard.’
I realized it was a woman as we pulled over and stopped. I checked the time – it was midnight – got out into the rain and was immediately soaked. I knelt down by her and got my torch out of my back pocket; she looked about sixty. Her brown coat was sodden with rain and she was bleeding heavily from her stomach, though the blood was constantly being washed away by the rain. Her face was grey, and her legs and arms were sprawled out as she had fallen.
The detective rolled down his window and shouted: ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a body, you fool,’ I said. ‘Get the surgeon on the radio, an ambulance. Do it fast.’
‘Who’re you giving orders to?’ he yelled furiously. ‘You want to get your knees brown, son!’
I ignored him. Soon the driver joined me, the rain pelting on his cap, and he bent over her too. He listened to her heart for a minute, took her pulse and stood up. ‘I don’t think she’ll be needing the ambulance,’ he said, rubbing his clean-shaven jaw in a judicious way.
‘Well, she won’t if it doesn’t hurry,’ I said.
He looked at me. ‘You want to watch your tone.’
I said: ‘Just get that ambulance up here.’
He was glad enough to get back to the car and inside out of the rain with the plainclothes man; that showed. I watched them fiddling with the radio in the lit interior of the car until I got fed up and went over. ‘Well?’
‘They’re trying to get the doctor,’ said the CID man, ‘but he’s busy giving some drunk an alcohol test.’ He added, looking at her from the car window: ‘Thrown out of a motor, was she?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘What I think is, we’ll never find out who did it,’ he said. Passing traffic drowned out some of what he said. Standing in the rain I shouted: ‘I want to try and save her life!’ I went back to her. She was still alive, just. I turned her until she was face up to me, then put my arms under her broken shoulders. Her face was streaked with mud. There was gravel in her grey hair and a raw wound in her scalp where her head had smashed down on the tarmac when she was thrown out of the car.
She looked at me blindly out of half-closed eyes. ‘Katie?’ she whispered. ‘Katie, is that you, dear?’ She gazed past me, her eyes darkening, her life slipping apologetically away past me out of the torchlight – out into the perimeter of endless rain beyond the squad car’s headlights. I took each of her arms gently in my fingers and they stirred; but when I did the same to her legs nothing happened at all. I told the others in the car this and went back to her. Presently the CID man shouted: ‘Doctor reckons her back’s broken, and the ambulance’ll be about half an hour!’
‘But that’s too long!’ I yelled back. ‘Too fucking long! Tell them it’s got to come quicker than that – it’s got to!’
‘They say they’re short of crews!’
‘They’ll be short of another crew when I’ve done with them!’ I shouted. A forty-ton truck thrashed past us northwards and drowned out my words. Now the rain came down on us in white towers, great lances of water, hissing through hair, up sleeves, soaking everyone, flooding everything. I was crying with frustration as I knelt over her, but the rain skimmed the tears off my face. We waited and waited, well past the half hour, and no ambulance came. We had the first-aid kit in the car but were afraid to use it; she was so badly injured that we didn’t know where to start. We had her covered up as best we could with whatever we could find; she died in my arms, and just before she went, which she did suddenly, one hand crept up and she died feeling at the buttons on my tunic and asking in a whisper for Katie. That was her daughter, we found out later, who lived in Wales. Meanwhile the night trucks pounded away towards Newcastle in great showers and sheets of rain, shrouding all of us.
Of course she had been murdered. She was a Mrs Mayhew, sixty-two, a widow living on her pension at Dungeness Road, Watford, out by the entrance to the M1. When we got to her house it had been ransacked; the robbers might have got seventy quid’s worth of gear, plus maybe a tenner that the neighbours said she kept by her for shopping. What these maniacs couldn’t take they had smashed; they had also shat on her living room floor. Outside you could see where she had been dragged through the mud and into their car, to be hurled out of it as it bombed away north.
Nobody was ever caught for her, and Mrs Mayhew made four lines in the Watford Observer.
But that’s why, when they started Unexplained Deaths, or A14, I was one of the first to join; and that’s why I stayed on as a copper, just when I was thinking it was a dog’s life and had considered jacking it in.
Mrs Mayhew, I saw on her papers, had a pretty Christian name. I remember it:
Jonquil.
4
I work on the second floor of the Factory when I’m in. Everything has to have an official name in the police, and my room is Room 205. The listed name of the Factory is Poland Street police station, London W1, but it’ll never shake off the name of the Factory. The name sticks to the men and women who work there, also to the people who get worked over there, downstairs. I don’t go in to the Factory much. If you’re with A14 you work your cases on your own. We’re too undermanned to do otherwise, and we work only on cases where the victims have been written off upstairs as unimportant, not pressworthy, not well connected and not big crime. I don’t do much interviewing in 205. I do all that in my own way, catching the man I want to see on his manor – as often as not at his own place; if not, it might be in his local boozer or else through a grass. Most of the work we get is passed to us from Serious Crimes at the Yard, and the man I generally find myself dealing with there is Charlie Bowman, a cheeky chief inspector of thirty-three with not much on top of his head nor a lot inside it in my opinion, apart from ruthlessness, ambition and drive. To me, Bowman’s the other kind of copper, and he’s only just got back to work again after a rest. The story officially is that he had an ulcer; the unofficial story is that his wife freaked him out with the habit she had of pushing all four buttons on his quartz watch – which he never took off for the occasion – each time he
was coming up to orgasm, making it bleep. I don’t believe either version. I think Charlie’s real problem is that he never gets that step up to detective-superintendent that he expects each time the promotions come through.
I’d also better mention that I’m just a detective-sergeant and certain to remain one. I reckon I’m a sergeant only because I could hardly have managed otherwise, but they could have left me a constable for all I cared. Bowman doesn’t like that. It makes him uneasy that he’s nearly ten years younger than I am, and so much higher in rank. He’s rightly got the impression that I don’t care about rank, and that irks him. We quarrel when we meet, which luckily isn’t that often. He enjoys reminding me: ‘The one sure way of denying yourself promotion, sergeant – and you’re getting no younger – is your bloody insolence.’
But I’m not insolent, I’m just impatient. My trouble is, I can’t stand fools. Justice is what I bother about – not rank. I watch men like Charlie Bowman operating and I think Christ, does anyone really expect to get justice that way?
The Devil's Home on Leave (Factory 2) Page 1