Broken Faith

by James Green

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well I got the feeling that they talked, that they had something going, but they kept it all very much to themselves if they did. They had nothing in common that I could ever see, and I never came across anything that I could actually put my finger on, but you get a feeling for things after a few years. I’d say something was going on, but as it never caused trouble I left it alone.’ He remembered something else. It was coming back. ‘And I’ll tell you something else that seemed odd at the time. There was this young tearaway came in after Jarvis had done about a year. Drawn a stretch for GBH. Violent, fancied himself, a troublemaker. He started on about Jarvis when he found out what he been sent down for. I remember him saying how you should take a file to a paedophile and he made sure Jarvis heard it. That was about as far as his brains or his idea of joke went. He was just using Jarvis as an excuse to show everyone what a hard-case he was, but he was obviously going to do him some damage. Then Harry stepped on him. We couldn’t prove anything, Harry was too clever for that. But the young hard nut spent a month in hospital and had to have his jaw wired. He wasn’t such a hard nut after that and Jarvis never got bothered by anybody again. Nothing was said, but after what happened to the tearaway, nothing much needed saying did it?’

  Jimmy took a drink.

  ‘Nice beer, this Original.’

  ‘Yeah it is. It used to be called Old Original but they changed the name. I don’t see why.’

  ‘Would you be surprised if I told you that Harry took up crime writing?’

  That got a laugh.

  ‘Harry? It wouldn’t surprise me, it would bloody well amaze me. I told you, Harry’s idea of reading material stopped at betting slips or page three girls stuck to his cell wall. He didn’t even read a newspaper that I can remember. Harry couldn’t write a book if his life depended on it.’

  Jimmy looked at Rosa.

  ‘Our information seems to be wrong then.’

  Rosa carried on.

  ‘What about visitors? Did either of them get anyone regular?’

  ‘I don’t remember. There’s so many visitors over the years. You don’t remember them, they just get to be a blur of faces.’

  ‘Does the name Henderson mean anything to you?’

  Carter gave it some thought, then brightened.

  ‘Yes.’ Jimmy and Rosa gave each other a look. ‘There was a bloke called Henderson. A runty little feller, bald with glasses, harmless. Did time for bigamy.’

  ‘Bigamy?’

  ‘Yes, which was a laugh because no one could see how he could get one woman to marry him never mind two. He was Scottish, a sailor.’

  ‘Not an accountant?’

  Carter laughed.

  ‘No, he worked on cruise ships, a steward I think. Mind you, as I remember, now that you ask, he did have a way with him. Could make people laugh.’

  Whoever this new Henderson was, he wasn’t the one they were looking for. Jimmy finished his pint. They had what they needed. It was time to move on.

  Rosa agreed, she finished her tea and pushed away the cup.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Carter. You’ve been very helpful.’

  Rosa and Jimmy got up. Carter looked up at them.

  ‘Is that it? Is that all you wanted to know. It doesn’t seem much to me. I could tell you plenty more about what went on. Stuff you could –’

  ‘Thank you, but we’ve got all we need.’

  Rosa was about to turn and leave when Jimmy stopped her.

  ‘Hang on. Don’t forget the camera. It’s not heavy.’ She didn’t move, Jimmy gave her a smile. ‘I got the drinks, remember.’

  She picked up the camera bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then they left. Carter sat at the table with a bemused look on his face for a moment then stood up and took his drink to the bar where the barman was reading a paper. He didn’t like drinking on his own.

  The barman looked up. He could see that the glass was still almost full.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘One bloody pint. It was hardly worth the effort of coming. Bloody newspaper reporters.’

  And, seeing that nothing was wanted except conversation, the barman returned to his paper.He wasn’t the chatty type.

  Jimmy and Rosa set off down the London Road towards the station where they had arrived earlier and taken a taxi to the gaol. When they got inside Jimmy looked for the Customer Enquiries booth. It was on the far side of the ticket hall.

  ‘Hang on here, I want to find out something.’

  Rosa unslung the camera case, put it down beside her and looked up at the big departures board. The next London train left in twenty minutes. She looked across at Jimmy, who was talking to someone in the enquiry booth. When he came back his phone went off. He took it out and looked at the name. It was Professor McBride. He switched off the phone and put it away.

  ‘Someone you don’t want to speak to.’

  ‘A woman I know. She thinks I should be somewhere else. Never mind her. Henderson’s firm is in Coventry. We can catch a train from here, change at Nuneaton. It would take us about an hour.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Why not, we’re finished here and it’s early yet,’ he looked at his watch, ‘ not even two. Why not go on to Coventry?’

  ‘And do what? Find Henderson’s business, walk in without an appointment and say to whoever’s there, excuse me, tell us all you know about a sex offender called Jarvis, a career villain called Mercer and your boss’s involvement in wholesaling hard porn in Spain.’

  Jimmy shrugged.

  ‘You’re the reporter, you think of something.’

  Rosa stood for a moment.

  ‘I’ve thought of something.

  ‘Good, what?’

  ‘I’ve thought of what a pillock you must be to think I’d set off for Coventry without any way of getting what we want. Unlike the police, I don’t carry a warrant card, so I can’t just barge in and beat information out of people. You go to Coventry if you want, I’m going to be on the next train back to London and here,’ she picked up the camera case, ‘you take this fucking thing. It’s heavy.’ Jimmy took it. ‘Come on, it’s platform three.’

  She didn’t wait for him. Jimmy slung the bag over his shoulder. It didn’t seem so heavy, he couldn’t see what she was moaning about. Then he set off after her, maybe she had a point, they would need a story, a way in, but that was her job. He couldn’t think of a story so he didn’t try, he left it alone and switched his brain off. To anybody who took any notice he looked just like a newspaper photographer.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘I was surprised when I got your call yesterday, but it was a very pleasant surprise. We’ve never been in the running for an award before, although I have to say I’ve never actually heard of it. The Small Businesses Good Service Award.’

  Rosa got real conviction into her voice, as if there really was an award.

  ‘I can understand that, Mr Dredge; this is only its second year and last year was really nothing more than a try-out, but I assure you it will rapidly gain prestige in the trade. Too few people realise how important good services are to the sustaining of small business profitability. The simple fact is that twice the number of small business failures are directly down to poor service facilities when compared to marketing or production problems.’

  ‘Indeed? So many.’

  ‘Fact, I assure you, researched fact.’

  ‘I see. But how did we get chosen?’

  ‘Our business editor uses a firm that monitors the performance of businesses that fit the category of the award. He picks three of the top ones and I get sent to interview whoever is in charge and choose which one wins.’

  Mr Dredge passed over the inherent nonsense of Rosa’s explanation and cut to the heart of what she had said, the bit he was really interested in.

  ‘I see, you are the one who actually chooses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you been to the other two?’

 
‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask who they are?’

  ‘No, sorry, I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘No, of course, I quite understand.’

  Mr Dredge was the senior accountant at Henderson-Kenwright & Co. but he didn’t look like an accountant, he looked more like a cartoonist’s idea of an on-course bookie. He was a balding, chubby man with a checked jacket, yellowy-green waistcoat, florid bow tie, and a face that fitted his ready smile. A friendly man you could trust, a bookie you’d be happy to bet with.

  ‘So, how do you decide?’

  Jimmy sat and watched Rosa in action. It was a good idea, the award. It put Dredge on their side from the word go and, considering she’d only thought of it the previous day when Jimmy had phoned her, she made it all sound very real.

  ‘That’s quite simple. We talk to one of your clients.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Neat and effective, after all it’s the opinions of your customers that are the most accurate indicator of the service you provide.’

  ‘Of course, I can understand that.’

  ‘The truth is, Mr Dredge, there isn’t a lot of money in awards unless they’re big awards, the sort the public care about, and providing services to small businesses is, to put it bluntly, not headline-grabbing stuff. You and I know how vital it is but, well, as I say, not the stuff that makes headlines. We’re doing it because we think it’s important but we can’t put too much into it in the way of resources. So this morning you get the two of us and we go home with whatever you’ve told us and, hopefully, one interview with a satisfied client and we take it from there.’

  ‘Yes. And the award itself?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’ You could see the disappointment on his face. Five hundred pounds wasn’t much, not much at all. ‘I’m afraid it’s not much.’

  Dredge gave a weak smile barely trying to hide his disappointment.

  ‘No indeed.’

  He still looked like a bookie, but now a bookie who has been asked by a stranger to extend credit. Rosa was ready for his response.

  ‘No, the money isn’t much. But then again it’s not really about the money.’

  He brightened up.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, it’s about the publicity. A feature on the winner in our business section, a big feature.’

  The smile returned, the stranger had turned out to be credit-worthy after all.

  ‘A feature?’

  Rosa nodded.

  Dredge thought about it.

  ‘And do you choose the client you interview, or do I?’

  Rosa slightly lowered her voice. She was becoming confidential.

  ‘Mr Dredge, I’m going to let you into a little secret. It isn’t only about who gives the best service. The feature on the winner needs to be good copy, something that will be interesting to a wide audience so we choose the winner by choosing the most attractive of the satisfied clients.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let me explain. If you were accountants to a small engineering firm who made, say, widgets. It would be difficult to see how their high opinion of your services could be written up into a good feature. But say you were accountants to a club that celebrities frequent,’ She let it sink in. ‘You can see how that would take very little writing indeed to have a very wide appeal.’

  Dredge saw. He smiled.

  ‘Yes, I can see what you mean. Unfortunately I’m afraid our customers are almost all of the widget-producing variety. Solid rather than spectacular.’

  ‘That’s a pity. It wouldn’t have had to be an actual cat-house, you understand, just something to hang a story on. A local celebrity, a firm with some sort of angle we could play up, like a small publisher whose books people might have read.’ Rosa waited but Dredge didn’t respond. She edged forward. ‘A publisher who had an author whose name the public would recognise.’ She waited again.

  Dredge perked up.

  ‘There is a publisher.’

  ‘Is there?’

  Rosa’s surprise was good, it looked almost genuine though Jimmy thought it a shade overdone. Dredge took it at face value.

  ‘Yes, it’s a firm not far away, Leamington Spa, Tate and Wiston.’ The enthusiasm went out of his voice. ‘But they publish mostly trade journals and specialist books. I doubt very many of your readers would have –’

  Rosa turned to Jimmy.

  ‘You’re the book reader, Jimmy. Does the name Tate and Wiston ring any bells?’

  Jimmy was no actor, but he did his best. He didn’t try surprise, it would come out like shock, or as if he was having an attack or seizure, so he went for a straight delivery.

  ‘I think I know the name. They publish Harry Mercer, the crime writer, don’t they?’

  Rosa did more surprise.

  ‘A crime writer. That sounds interesting. Harry Mercer? Never heard of him. How about you, Mr Dredge?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid crime-thrillers aren’t something I read.’

  ‘OK, Jimmy, for the benefit of us ignorant ones, who is Harry Mercer?’

  Jimmy spoke his party piece just as she’d rehearsed him.

  ‘He was a London career gangster, got sent down for armed robbery and while inside he turned his hand to writing. He’s written four books so far and these days he lives in Spain.’

  That was it, not an Oscar performance but he’d got the words out. Now Rosa could get on with things again. She turned back to Dredge full of enthusiasm.

  ‘Great, a celebrity ex-gangster virtually on your books, Mr Dredge. Could you get us an interview with whoever heads up …what did you say the publisher’s called?’

  ‘Tate and Wiston. I could try, I’m sure they’d like to help. Shall I phone them and set up an appointment? What would be a suitable date?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s like I said, there’s no real money for this, so today is all we get for you and your client.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Why not try this publisher and if it’s no-go then we’ll move onto the next most likely. I must say though, if you can swing it for us I think we may finally have our winner. The other two firms couldn’t come up with anyone who could compete with a gangster turned best-selling author.’ She had Dredge where she wanted him now so she gave him the final push. ‘Have a go, use your charm. I think you’ll find it will be worth it. You know what our circulation is?’

  He didn’t so she named a figure, it sounded ridiculous to Jimmy but it landed Dredge all right. He pulled a roll-file to him and flicked through the roll until he found the number. He made the call.

  ‘Hello, Mr Jardene, it’s Gordon Dredge of Henderson-Kenwright, I have a small favour to ask. We’re being put up for a new industry award, the Small Businesses Good Services Award. I have someone from the newspaper who are sponsoring it here with me now. She wondered whether she could speak to one of our clients, preferably a satisfied one.’ He gave a brief laugh, the Jardene character must have made a joke. ‘Of course, very amusing. As they are only up from London for the day I thought of you. Could you give them –’ He looked enquiringly at Rosa. She flicked her fingers up twice. ‘– twenty minutes some time around lunchtime? It would be a real help and I think we would both benefit from the result. There will be a feature in the business pages and the paper’s circulation is –’ Dredge told him the circulation. It was a real help. ‘You can, at one today. That’s so good of you, Mr Jardene. Thank you.’ He put the phone down. ‘So, one today.’

  ‘Great. How do we get to Leamington Spa?’

  ‘By car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Taxi?’

  Rosa shook her head.

  ‘We’d never get it past Accounts if it was over ten pounds.’

  ‘Then train is your best bet. There are regular trains from Coventry. Once at Leamington, get a taxi and ask for Copthorne Terrace, number thirty-two. It won’t cost anywhere near ten pounds.’ They all laughed politely. ‘Tate and Wiston are on the first floor. You will
see a Mr Jardene, that was him on the phone.’

  Rosa stood up, so did Jimmy. She put out a hand.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Dredge, and perhaps I should add, congratulations.’

  Dredge simpered as they shook hands, a pleased bookie after a good day at the races.

  ‘Oh, thank you, but perhaps a little premature, although I’m sure Mr Jardene counts as a satisfied client.’

  ‘It’s in the bag.’

  Jimmy felt like clapping. Someone should be applauding her performance. She was a born actor. Mr Dredge held out his hand to Jimmy.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr …’

  Rosa hadn’t introduced him so Dredge had no name for him and Jimmy didn’t give him one, just shook his hand. He looked as if he was about to follow Rosa then stopped.

  ‘One last thing, Mr Dredge, who actually owns this firm, Henderson or Kenwright, or is it still a partnership?’

  ‘Mr Henderson is the owner, he bought out Kenwright some years ago, but he’s not active in our day-to-day running any more. He lives in Spain now,’ he smiled at a thought he’d just had, ‘like our writer, Harry Mercer. Quite a coincidence isn’t it?’

  Rosa smiled and edged closer to the door. Jimmy didn’t smile or follow her.

  ‘So Mr Henderson’s retired?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say he’s retired. Nothing official but he doesn’t have any sort of active role any more.’

  ‘But he pops back occasionally to keep an eye on things?’

  ‘No, we haven’t seen him for …’ Dredge had to do think about it, ‘ … slightly over two years. I have his full trust and, if I say so myself, the firm is in very safe hands.’

  Rosa could see that Jimmy’s questions were beginning to unsettle Dredge.

  ‘I’m sure it is. Jimmy’s a great one for background, Mr Dredge, but we really have to be going. Thanks.’

  Jimmy joined Rosa who stood waiting by the office door, she took a firm grip of his arm and they left. Dredge sat back into his chair a happy man.

  ‘Thorough devils,’ he said to himself. ‘Still, I suppose it all helps.’

  And he got back to work.

  Outside the offices of Henderson-Kenwright Rosa stopped.

  ‘You nearly fucked that up, you know that?’