Broken Faith

by James Green

  ‘I’d say it’s part of a story and with holes in it. Why would anyone over here be interested in people dying in Spain?’

  ‘Because it involves a bloke called Harry Mercer. Harry used to be a big mate of a bloke called Denny Morris. Spain is where Harry lives now’

  The young woman began to look interested.

  ‘I’ve heard of Morris, he was a heavyweight back in the old days. Disappeared didn’t he? Got put in hospital by some sort of psycho and then disappeared when Nat Desmond took over.’

  ‘That’s right. How come you know about Denny and Nat, you’re too young to …’

  ‘I do my homework, George. I like to know how we got where we are today. How’s your friend connected to Harry Mercer?’

  ‘He was the psycho who put Denny in hospital.’

  That stopped her in her tracks for a couple of seconds.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now there’s shit between him and Mercer. One of them’s going to kill the other. It’s a sort of hate-hate relationship. Mercer’s already had two goes, he got someone to stick a knife in my mate but that only got the hit man’s neck broken. Then he tried himself, but he missed. There’ll be blood all over the carpets before long. But I don’t want it on my carpets. As far as anybody is concerned I’m just doing a favour for old time’s sake, understand?’ She nodded, she understood. ‘Well, do you want to talk to my mate?’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Costello, Jimmy Costello.’

  ‘I’ll need to ask around, see what some people think.’

  ‘That’s all right, a certain caution does no harm. Do your asking and be here tomorrow, same time, and tell me if you’re in or out. If you’re in you’ll be all the way in and there’ll be no way out if it turns sour, and with Costello involved it could turn very sour. Understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I understand, George.’

  ‘Good. Now piss off.’

  The young woman stood up smiling.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you? I don’t fit into your neat little box of types do I?’

  ‘No I don’t like you, but don’t worry, it’s nothing personal, I don’t like most people. Just be here tomorrow like I said.’

  The young woman walked away and George watched her go. He knew who had made the recommendation and George respected his judgement. If he said she was OK then she was OK, linen jacket and all. But she didn’t look like a journalist, she looked like a writer, or maybe an artist. Oh well, it would all be up to Jimmy now.

  Thinking about it, George decided he didn’t much care who came out on top just so long as there was no blood on the carpets at this end. Not on his carpets anyway.

  Chapter Twenty

  Two nights later the same young woman was sitting at the same table, but it wasn’t George she was talking to. It was Jimmy.

  ‘I spoke to George a couple of days ago and did some checking.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘People that matter remember you.’

  ‘I’m nothing special, I never was. Why would anybody remember me?’

  ‘The word is that you turned up a few years ago and by the time you left some very influential people were getting their hands dirty trying to scrape shit off the fan.’ Jimmy shrugged. He didn’t care what she’d heard. ‘Also, I was told that the car bomb that got Nat Desmond was down to you.’

  He cared about that. It was one thing getting called a bent copper, especially if you were one, but it was another thing altogether getting your name linked to terrorist games.

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Maybe not you personally, but I was told you were the one that saw that it got done.’

  ‘Whoever told you that doesn’t know his arse from his elbow and if that’s the kind of contacts you have you’ll be no good to me. I need someone who can tell fact from fiction.’

  The young woman looked round the big bar. It was another busy night and there was a nice mix but they had a table to themselves and George had made sure their talk would be private so long as they didn’t shout. Across the room George was sitting by himself reading a paperback with a cup of tea on his table. He looked up from his book to where they were sitting. The young woman nodded to him. George ignored her and went back to his reading.

  ‘Your mate George doesn’t like me. Why would you say he doesn’t like me?’

  ‘George doesn’t like most people, it’s nothing personal.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll get to like me?’

  Jimmy couldn’t see the point of the question, but whatever it was, it wasn’t a come-on.

  ‘I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. But if I knew you I probably wouldn’t like you.’

  She changed the subject. She wanted to get alongside him if she was going to work with him. She needed to get a feeling for the kind of person he was and she could see it wasn’t going to be easy at short notice.

  ‘They say this place was a gangster’s pub in the old days. That it got used by the likes of Lenny Monk and Denny Morris. They were supposed to be real hooligans and nasty with it.’ Jimmy didn’t respond. Lenny Monk and Denny Morris were a long time ago, and both were now dead. ‘They say it was from this pub that you took Denny out and beat the living crap out of him and put him in hospital.’ Jimmy still left it. ‘I’d give a lot to get the full story on that, so would my editor, so would a lot of editors. The inside story of the fall of Denny Morris and the rise of Nat Desmond. I know people who would pay a lot for that story.’

  ‘You’d have been a kid when all that happened. Why would ancient history like that interest you or anybody else?’

  ‘Listen, Jimmy, George told me some things about you, interesting things.’

  Jimmy looked across at George.

  ‘George has a slack mouth. It’ll get him into trouble one of these days.’

  ‘No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m good, believe me, and I’m on the way up because I’m young and I’m hungry. I needed to know that this is something that could help me get where I want.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘The top. Where else is there?’

  How many times had Jimmy heard that? ‘I want to get on up there where everyone will see I’m the best.’ How many people had he seen step on family, friends, and anybody else, until it was their turn to be stepped on and be a rung on the ladder for some bigger bastard to stand on.

  He started listening to her again. She was still telling him about how good she was going to be. ‘I don’t want to piss about following the same stories as everybody else. I want to stand out from the crowd. Old-style London gangsters make good copy, there’s a market for that sort of nostalgia. When I came to see George I wasn’t much interested in what he wanted, I was interested in George and the guy who recommended me to him.’

  ‘Why, what’s interesting about George?’

  ‘I’ve heard of George, he’s somebody in this town and when he put the word out he was looking for a journalist I was recommended to him by –’ she said a name. It meant nothing to Jimmy.

  ‘Means nothing to me and George told me he’s legit these days. Almost.’

  That got a smile.

  ‘Of course he is, if he says so, and I’m sure he says so. Anyway, I wanted to meet him, every little helps. Then he told me a few things about you. He knew I’d only take an interest if there was a sweetener in it for me so he gave me a few bits and pieces.’

  ‘Enough to get you interested?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I? It was you who asked for me, not the other way round. You want a journalist and I want to move on up. Why can’t we both get what we want?’ Put like that, it seemed reasonable enough. But if you put shooting yourself in the head the right way it could seem reasonable enough. ‘Like I said, I’ve talked to people and I know you were a bent copper and you were well into those gangs. It’s funny though, because people who remember those days will talk about the likes of Monk, Morris, and Desmond, but nobody seems to want to talk about yo
u.’

  ‘I told you, I was nobody.’

  ‘Too damn right you were nobody. I got someone to look at your official file at the Met. He said it had been filleted. According to your file you spent all your time as a Detective Sergeant doing bugger-all.’ She sat back, pulled out a large handkerchief, took off her glasses and gave them a polish. ‘You’re an interesting person, Jimmy, someone with a past, a past I could use. If I can help with whatever you’re up to I want to be paid, properly paid, and not just with money.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you want my body?’

  That almost got a laugh, but only almost.

  ‘No, you can keep your trousers on. I want you to co-operate with me on the truth about the old days. There are names out there, big, respectable names, who got where they are now by mixing with people who were definitely not respectable. I want names, dates and places. I think there’s a lid to be lifted and I want to do the lifting. That’s my price, take it or leave it.’

  She leaned forward and took a sip of her drink. It was lemonade with a dash of lime, no ice. She didn’t seem to drink proper stuff.Then she sat back and waited.

  So, thought Jimmy, this is what journalists look like today. Twenty-something, jeans, leather jacket, non-drinker, non-smoker, and probably with a fucking degree in Sociology or some other bloody ology.

  ‘You got a degree?’

  ‘Yes. Cambridge. Politics and Economics, why?’

  Jimmy didn’t answer, what did it matter? Was she any good? That was what mattered. Jimmy didn’t need to think about it for very long. This was probably the best offer he’d get and he wanted to get on with things.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you what I want and you can tell me if you can do it. If you can, I’ll co-operate all you want when it’s over.’

  That was what he said. What he thought was – and I can kick your arse up through your neck when it’s all over if you try to get anything about me or my past into print.

  ‘Oh no, Jimmy, I want something on account. What’s to stop you getting what you want and then telling me to shove my questions about you and the old days up my editor’s arse?’

  So, maybe not so green as she was cabbage-looking after all. Well, that was a good sign. An idiot would be no good to him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She thought about it.

  ‘How about Nat Desmond? What was that car bomb really all about?’

  So Jimmy told her to get him another pint of Directors and they sat in the Hind drinking while Jimmy told her why the IRA had car-bombed a top London gangster. When it was over she looked impressed.

  ‘So you used the IRA to get Desmond off your back? How were you linked to the IRA?’

  ‘I wasn’t, I used a contact who was. I wanted a favour from them, they wanted a favour from me in return. I gave them Nat.’

  ‘And why was he a favour to the IRA?’

  ‘Nat was clever. In the end he was too clever. His trouble was that he wanted it all, the money, the power, to be the one at the top. And at the end of it all he wanted a pension plan that would protect him when he decided to retire and enjoy the profits. Nat was really just a violent accountant who got into bad company. He’d been passing any information he picked up on terrorists coming in and out of London to Special Branch. He had the contacts so he got the information. The IRA owed him a visit. The car bomb was their visit.’

  ‘I see.’

  No you don’t, thought Jimmy, but it was close enough.

  ‘So, now can we get on to what I want? I’ve had a hard fucking week and I’m tired.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Harry Mercer worked for Denny Morris, we knew each other. I hadn’t seen him for …’ he tried to work it out but gave up ‘ …a long time. I came across him recently in Spain. Never mind what I was doing there, I just came across him. He was linked to a bloke called Arthur Jarvis who got a bullet in the back of his head.’

  ‘George told me there were already bodies in the works. Jarvis is one of them?’

  Jimmy nodded.

  ‘Mercer was also linked to another bloke called Henderson, a semi-retired ex-pat who owns an accountancy firm in the Midlands. Harry says that these days he’s a writer but I think he’s a wholesaler of hard, nasty porn. I need to be able to prove that Jarvis, Henderson, and Mercer are linked. I can’t do it in Spain because they’ve been too careful, so I’ve got to do it at this end. I need to find out how they met and how they set up what they’re doing. Jarvis was a teacher who did time for having sex with some of his under-aged pupils. Mercer did a stretch for trying to knock over a bookies in Birmingham. They probably met inside, that’s the likeliest bet. Henderson has an accountancy firm in Coventry. I would guess he handles the money end but I don’t have any leads on how he got involved.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you interested? There’s plenty of porn out there, putting a couple of providers away won’t change anything. What’s in it for you?’

  ‘When I turned up, Mercer must have added two and two together and come up with five. He was never strong on brains so put me down as trying to fit him in the frame with the local police for his porn racket.’

  ‘How was he wrong? You are trying to fit him in.’

  ‘But I wasn’t, it was just a coincidence that we met, but Harry isn’t taking any chances. Just before I left Spain Harry tried to top me but he was unlucky and shot the wrong person. One way or another he’ll try again, this is my way of stopping him.’

  ‘Another of the bodies?’ Jimmy nodded. ‘I see, so you’re pleading self-defence, not the pursuit of justice?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just take what you’ve got to the Spanish police?’

  ‘They’ve already got it, but like I said, Harry and Co. have been very careful. Jarvis is dead and Henderson is too scared of Harry to do anything.’

  ‘Did Mercer kill Jarvis?’

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know. I just want to make the connections at this end so the Spanish police can roll them up and put Harry where he won’t be a problem to me any more.’

  ‘And as you’re not a copper any more you can’t just swan around the UK, kick in a few doors and ask questions like you did in the old days so you need someone who can get answers for you. A journalist. Me.’

  ‘You.’

  ‘OK, my editor will stand up for that. What we’ve got is an ex-pat porn king living the high life on the Costas on the proceeds of dumping filth onto the internet. Add his gangster past, a teacher who poked his under-aged pupils and a bent accountant and you’ve got the beginnings of a story, but there’s still holes in it. It’ll need some writing to make it any good, but that’s my job.’ She held up her drink. ‘Cheers, we’ve got a deal.’ She took a drink and put her glass down. ‘I’ll ask your questions and get your answers for you.’

  She leant forward and put out her hand.

  Jimmy shook the hand, but not with any enthusiasm. He felt the same as George, he didn’t like her. She was cocky, brash and too full of herself. She reminded Jimmy of a young George all those years ago when they had first met. But he had liked George. Maybe she would grow on him.

  ‘What do I call you.’

  ‘Rosa. Rosa Sikora.’

  ‘Sikora, that’s Polish isn’t it?’

  ‘As Polish as Hammersmith makes them.’

  ‘OK, Rosa, when can we start?’

  ‘I’ll need twenty-four hours to sort things out with my editor and tie up a few loose ends but then I can get going on it. Is that OK?’

  ‘Fine. The first thing I need to know is where Jarvis did his time.’

  ‘Sure, I can do that. What’s his first name?

  ‘Arthur’

  ‘I’ll have it for you in twenty-four hours.’

  Jimmy stood up. His side was still hurting. He should rest it. Rosa looked at him.

  ‘You OK? Pain in your side?’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s just old ag
e, I’m slowing up.’

  ‘George says different. He says Mercer sent a bloke to stick a knife in you.’

  ‘And I still say George has a slack mouth and it’ll get him into trouble one of these days. Don’t you start suffering from the same complaint if we’re going to work together.’

  Rosa smiled.

  ‘Is that a threat, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy smiled back.

  ‘No, sunshine, not a threat, a fucking promise.’

  And Jimmy left The Hind and went back to his hotel to get some rest. He had his journalist. Now he could get on with nailing Harry Mercer.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Leicester prison was an architectural monstrosity which stood beside a busy main road. The frontage it presented to the world, although the world did its best to ignore it, was grim and massive. Its dark stone walls were topped off with battlements and crenellations designed to give the impression of a medieval fortress. In this it failed miserably. It looked exactly what it was, a Victorian penal institution. The big, black doors under the arched main entrance were flanked by two turreted towers, and it was through this portcullis-style gatehouse that new inmates were delivered by white vehicles with small, neat windows, which resembled horseboxes arriving at a better-class cross-country event.

  To one side of the main gate towers stood an eight-foot, corrugated, aluminium fence or screen which, compared to the solid mass of the main building, had an air of permanent temporariness. Through a door in this fence visitors to the prison could reach the new Visits and Administration centre. Quite why such a fence was needed at all was something of a mystery, the most likely reason being, however, that it screened the modern new addition to the prison from the public gaze as the authorities did not want to advertise that public money had been spent improving the lot of people who were friends or relations of convicted felons.

  Jimmy’s bag was searched when he and Rosa had arrived in the new centre, confirmed they had a meeting a Mrs Morrissey in Administration and were given their passes. The bag contained a camera and a spare lens. Rosa had given it to Jimmy before they set off from St Pancras station that morning.