by Ann Granger
I clattered down the steps and plunged on past the National Film Theatre. Beneath Waterloo Bridge, open-air second-hand bookstalls had been set up today. Long trestle tables barred my path. There were a lot of people there, sorting through the volumes. I dodged around them and thought I was clear when a dotty old girl with her nose in a book she’d just bought, stepped straight in front of me. I leaped to one side, slipped and crashed to the pavement.
The woman with the book yelled and dropped it. A couple of men by the bookstall left what they were doing and came running. I saw they were headed for me and didn’t look friendly. They probably thought I was a fleeing mugger and had made a grab for the woman’s bag, slung over her shoulder. I was about to be the subject of a citizen’s arrest. A crowd began to form round me. I’d be lucky not to be duffed up as well.
I scrambled to my feet but before I could get away, a pair of hands grasped my shoulder. ‘Leggo! I haven’t done anything!’ I squawked and hacked backwards at my captor’s shins.
‘It’s me, Fran, it’s me!’ shouted Jason Harford’s voice in my ear.
I froze and then, as his grip relaxed, turned. ‘It’s me,’ he repeated breathlessly.
I was pretty out of breath too. I’d a stitch in my side and my chest ached as I dragged air in and out.
‘Police!’ Harford called to the two men. ‘Under control. No problem.’ People began to drift away, already deciding that whatever it was, they wanted no part of it. The mention of the word ‘police’ has that effect. Even the pair of gung-ho types keen to nab me seconds before, were deciding that, after all, they didn’t want to be witnesses to whatever it might be.
‘Grice . . .’ I gasped, pointing a trembling finger over Harford’s shoulder back the way we’d come.
‘We’ve got him.’
‘His minder, big guy with a pony—’
‘We’ve got him too, don’t worry. The only guy we haven’t got is that loony in the woolly hat who came barging in. Who was he?’ Harford asked indignantly.
‘Nobody important. Just someone who thinks I did him a bad turn. Did you get Grice’s camera?’
‘His camera?’ Harford scowled at me, not understanding.
‘He took a picture of me. For God’s sake, get the film out and destroy it! I’ve had enough trouble from bits of film left lying around!’
‘Will do.’ He grinned. ‘Well done, Fran. Foxley will be pleased.’
I told him, rather impolitely, I didn’t care whether Foxley was pleased or not. Never, but never again, would I agree to help out the cops. It was not my style. It was against all my principles.
‘Do your own dirty work,’ I said in one of my more printable phrases.
‘You were always safe,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I said I’d look after you, Fran.’ He put his hands on my shoulders again, but gently this time. ‘And I will, you’ll see.’
I am not good at handling this sort of occasion. I said, ‘Oh, right . . .’ and felt a fool. Fortunately, just then Parry turned up.
‘Excuse me, sir!’ he hailed Harford sarcastically. ‘Can you come back to the control van? Mr Foxley would like a word.’
‘I’ll see you later,’ Harford said hastily. He gave my shoulders a last squeeze and hurried away.
‘Want a lift home, Fran?’ asked Parry, when he’d gone.
I told him no thanks. I just wanted to get away from it all and be alone, like Greta Garbo.
‘Going out with him, then, later, are you?’ He jerked his head back to indicate the direction Jason Harford had gone in.
‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘Watch yourself,’ said Parry. ‘He’s got every WPC on the Force in a tizz. Still, he’s a bright boy. He’s going far, as they say.’
The depressed look which had accompanied these words was wiped from Parry’s face as he added, ‘You didn’t half get a move on when you went belting like the clappers out of it back there. I thought you were going to break some record. They need you in the Olympics, they do.’
‘Oh, go and arrest someone,’ I said wearily.
He’d persisted in offering the ride home, ‘in an unmarked car’, until I eventually got through to him that he was wasting his time.
Instead I sat by the river for a while until my heartbeat had got back to normal and my legs were functioning again. Then I walked back, over Waterloo Bridge this time, cut through Villiers Street to The Strand and down into Charing Cross tube station. There was a lot I didn’t understand, but it no longer mattered. I’d never even got my fingers on the envelope with the thousand in cash in it. That did rankle and I brooded darkly about it all the way home.
Bonnie was pleased to see me, jumping up and squeaking. I was pleased to see her, to be back in one piece, to have it all behind me. A distant rattle of typewriter keys pinpointed Daphne’s location. The great masterpiece was being worked on again. Perhaps one day I’d get to read a bit of it.
‘Only me, Daphne!’ I called. A faint cry replied. The keys rattled on.
I went upstairs, stripped off and soaked in the bath. Feeling a lot better when I got out, I did my best to dress smartly (for me) though the best I could do was a repeat of the clothes I’d worn the night Coverdale had died. Hardly a good omen. To compensate, I applied the stub of lipstick Joleen had given me. Jason Harford had said he’d be round later.
I went down to the kitchen and was making a cup of tea when the phone rang. ‘I’ll get it!’ I called out and went into the hall.
‘Fran?’ asked a female voice when I picked it up. ‘It’s Tig.’
I was surprised, though I’d wondered if she’d get in touch and let me know how things were going. I decided I wouldn’t tell her I’d seen Jo Jo. It might lead to complicated explanations and anyway, she didn’t need to know it. I told her Bonnie was fine, and asked her how things were.
‘Mum’s gone shopping,’ she said. ‘I had to wait till she’d gone out to call you. She gets suspicious if I use the phone.’
That didn’t sound too good. ‘How’s your dad taking it?’ I asked.
‘Dad? He’s gone.’
That threw me. ‘Gone where?’
‘Gone. Shoved off. He couldn’t hack it, my being back and being “no longer his little girl” was his way of putting it. He’s sleeping over at his office on a put-u-up.’
That was a turn up for the books. I hadn’t anticipated that. Poor Sheila. She’d got her daughter back and lost her husband. ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘he’ll come back when he’s got it sorted in his head. I expect your mum is upset about it, his taking off like that.’
‘Not really,’ said Tig. ‘She just says we don’t need him because we’ve got each other back again now. It’s awful, Fran. She follows me round the house. She doesn’t want me to go out. If I do, she wants to come with me. If she goes out, she wants me to go with her. I had a real barney with her earlier, because I wouldn’t go to the supermarket. She’s driving me nuts. I can’t stand it. I’m going to have to leave again, Fran.’
‘Give it time!’ I urged. ‘You’ve only just got there. You can’t push off just before Christmas. It’d break your mum’s heart. She’ll calm down. Your dad will come back. He’s bound to turn up for Christmas dinner. It’s all been a shock for them. The strain’s bound to show a bit.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tig. ‘It’s doing my head in for sure. But that’s not what I’m phoning about. Look, Fran, I owe you. I know that. Even if it doesn’t work out here, it’s not your fault. You really tried. You did everything you said you’d do. If I screw up now, it’s my problem. The thing is, there’s something I wanted to tell you before, you know, before I left London, but I was scared to. I didn’t want trouble. I still don’t. But now I’m up here, away from it, it’s not so bad and anyway, like I said, I owe you.’
‘It’s something I’m not going to want to hear, isn’t it?’ I said. The last fading beam of daylight moved away from the transom above the front door as I spoke.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You won’t want to h
ear it, I reckon. But I couldn’t be easy in my mind with you not knowing.’
So she told me, as I stood there in the darkening hallway, with Bonnie sitting at my feet and Daphne tapping away at her old upright in the background.
Chapter Eighteen
Jason Harford arrived just before seven. He’d changed out of the suit and was back in chinos with a casual shirt and leather jacket. He stood on Daphne’s doorstep in the lamplight, with his hands in his pockets, smiling at me.
‘You look nice,’ he said. It must have been Joleen’s lipstick.
I told him he looked pretty good himself, which was true.
‘So, can I come in?’
‘Sure.’ I stood aside to let him pass. He hesitated in the doorway and leaned forward as if he was going to kiss me, but I slipped past him to close the door.
‘No landlady?’ he asked glancing around.
‘Gone to see a friend, be back later.’
He wandered down the hall, studying the pictures and knickknacks. ‘It’s been a great day,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You’ve no idea how much Foxley’s wanted to nail Grice. Grice is denying ordering anyone to kill Coverdale, of course. He says his “former associate”, as he puts it, panicked and stuck the poor guy. After that, says Grice, he gave the killer his marching orders and doesn’t know, surprise, surprise, where to find him now. Still, we’ve got Grice himself and he’ll be angling soon to cut a deal. It’s looking good. The super’s as pleased as punch. I told you he’s normally a sour old git. Right now, he’s dancing on the ceiling.’
‘Got it sewn up, then,’ I said. ‘Congrats.’ I hadn’t meant to sound frosty, but I did.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean anyone’s going to make any deals with Grice,’ he went on hastily, ‘but it’s been made clear it’s in his interest to co-operate. He knows he’s going to gaol, but he doesn’t want to stay there any longer than he has to. The other guy, the one with the ponytail, has a record of violent offences and my guess is, he’ll talk if Grice doesn’t. There’s a way to go yet but we’ll get there.’
‘No honour among thieves,’ I said.
‘Lord, no!’ Harford looked quite shocked. ‘Every villain I’ve ever come across would double-cross his own grandma.’ He tapped the Victorian barometer, something Daphne had told me you shouldn’t do. It upset it. ‘You should listen to them volunteer to squeal when the heat’s turned up.’ He pointed to the barometer. ‘Just like this. Guaranteed to be affected by current conditions.’
I wondered just how many villains he had met. His meteoric rise through the ranks to date, which niggled Parry so much, didn’t seem to me the best way to build up a close acquaintance with the criminal world. In textbooks, maybe. In the flesh, less so.
Now, Parry, who had met hundreds of crooks in his day, would probably have said many villains were good family men, crime being their gainful employment, as they’d see it, and their families being chips off the old block. We’re talking the professionals, of course, and not the bash-old-ladies brigade whom most of the regular type would abhor.
‘That sort,’ Parry had told me once, ‘and the pervs who meddle with little kids or murder ’em you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to protect ’em from the other prisoners, once they get inside.’
It also crossed my mind, as I listened to my companion’s optimistic forecast, that Parry would also have shown less confidence in the judicial system’s ability to put Grice away. Perhaps Harford was showing a little lack of experience there, too.
If so, it wasn’t the moment to suggest it to him. He’d abandoned the barometer. ‘Time to go out and celebrate. I thought we might try the Italian place again. The food’s good and this time, we might manage to talk.’ He grinned.
‘We need to talk,’ I said. ‘But perhaps we ought to do it here before we go out.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘You said,’ I reminded him, ‘that you’d explain to me why Grice was so anxious to get the negs back.’
‘Oh, that, sure. I owe you the full story. You’re right. We don’t want to be talking shop over the spaghetti.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Come in the kitchen.’
At some point during the day Daphne had cracked open another bottle. It stood on the shelf with the cork sticking out at an angle. It was a Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon. I was going to have to keep my eye on Daphne. Among the bottles I’d taken to the bottle bank earlier, had been wines from France, Germany, Australia, Bulgaria and California. Daphne was making a boozer’s world tour. I poured Jason a glass and half a glass for me and we settled down, either side of the big pine table. He picked up his glass and held it up in salute. I gestured towards mine but didn’t pick it up.
‘This is a nice kitchen,’ Harford said approvingly. ‘Mind you, this is a bloody good house. I thought so when I first came here – and met you. I’m not surprised the two old boys are after it. Any more trouble with them, by the way?’
‘I think,’ I said, ‘they’ve been dealt with for the time being.’
‘That’s all right, then. I told you not to worry.’ He leaned on the table. ‘I remember that evening very clearly, when I first came here. I’ve thought about it a lot.’
‘You looked at me,’ I said, ‘as if I’d been scraped up out of a blocked drain.’
‘I was scared of you,’ he said. ‘You looked so tough and assured. It wasn’t long, of course, before I rumbled your true nature.’ He raised his glass again.
‘My true nature,’ I told him, ‘is to be awkward, obstinate and bloody-minded. Nor am I about to forget that I was treated by your lot in all this as though I were expendable.’
‘Hey!’ he protested. ‘That’s not true! I admit we weren’t as efficient as we might have been, all the time, but no one wanted you harmed. You know I didn’t, don’t you?’
‘I don’t suppose any of you wanted me harmed,’ I said. ‘Because without me, you wouldn’t have got your hands on Grice.’
He pushed the glass aside. ‘We’re grateful, all right? But we were reasonably confident that, sooner or later, we’d find Grice.’
No, you weren’t, I thought, but he could safely claim so now.
‘It might have been a lot later, mind you,’ he was saying, ‘and we were bracing ourselves for that. But, you know, in the end a man like that has to break cover. Damn it, Fran, what’s the use of the money if he can’t spend it and live life to the full?’
‘They never found Lord Lucan,’ I pointed out. ‘And when it came to tracking down Grice, poor Coverdale did an awful lot better than you. He did find the man.’
‘And once he’d done it, he should have come straight to us!’ Harford was getting nettled at all this criticism. ‘If he had, he’d be alive today. And look here, Fran, we’re saddled with always having to go through official channels. Coverdale got his information by God knows what means not open to us!’
I decided I’d made my point and could let it go. ‘So where was Grice all the time? Where were the snaps taken?’ I asked.
Harford’s irritation was replaced by a smug grin. ‘Cuba!’ he said and laughed at my expression. ‘On the level. I can see you think it’d be the last place on earth, but you’ve got to update your ideas. The leisure industry shifts huge sums of money around the world. In and out of different currencies, developing one playground for the rich after another. Grice may have first thought of Florida as a place to invest his money, but the Americans are canny. They don’t like unknowns who turn up with huge sums to invest and no track record. They suspect organised crime and would’ve rumbled Grice straight away.
‘So Grice looked around and saw Cuba. They desperately need hard currency. Cuba’s broke but ambitious, keen to develop its tourist industry. The country’s so run down it’s having to start from scratch but it’s making up for lost time. It’s already getting to be the in place to holiday. The jet set are going out there for sun and sea. Everywhere else is getting overrun with plebs and package tours.
If you’ve got a lot of money and you want to spend some of it in Cuba, they’ll be delighted to see you and prepared to make sure you have the holiday of a lifetime. So when Grice turned up under a different identity, and proposed a joint venture in the tourist market for which he’d put up the bulk of the finance, they didn’t ask too many questions of him. He was what they’d been waiting for. Officially, capitalism is still out of favour. But Grice knew how to present his package. He claimed to be a wealthy European socialist. There are several French and Italian communist millionaires. The Cubans bought that, or pretended to. He was wined and dined, lodged in a government guest house – which was where Coverdale ran him to earth and, at a guess, bribed a servant to take those snaps.’