Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  Later Drayling joined him at a table in the corner. By this time most of the men had gone into the next room to watch a needle game of snooker and barrack the players. He said, “Don’t worry about Nabbs. If he pushes his proposal through the committee you can count on me to contribute any rent they see fit to extort.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Drummer. “But I couldn’t expect you—”

  “Don’t say any more about it. I’d like to do it. It’d be a privilege to support boys like yours. I heard what happened. It’s right, isn’t it, that the Paki said something insulting about this country and your boy knocked him down?”

  “That’s right,” said Drummer.

  He had repeated this version of it so often that he’d come to believe in it himself.

  “He ought to have got a medal. Not been run up in front of old Norrie. Anyway, let me get you another drink.”

  It was half an hour and two drinks later when he left the club. It was dark now and the light mist which came up from the river on autumn evenings was beginning to veil the street lighting. He was glad that his route to the Arsenal station was along the public and well-used Berridge Street. There had been one or two stories of mugging in the papers. If it did happen, people said, the best thing to do was hand over your wallet and not make a fuss, but at that moment he had more money on him than he would have cared to part with. The entertainment he was after had to be paid for in cash. Quite a lot of cash.

  At the Arsenal station he bought a ticket to Waterloo. There was not much traffic at that time of night and he found an empty carriage. No one followed him on to the platform and no one got on to the train after he did.

  The man who had been following him was now seated in a car outside the station. The driver, a top-class rally driver, was confident that he could keep up with the train. In fact they missed it at Dockyard, owing to a jam in Woolwich Church Street, but made good use of a long clear stretch in Woolwich Road and were ahead of it at Maze Hill and again at Deptford. By this time it was fairly clear that their man was making for Central London. Unfortunately there were three termini on that particular line: London Bridge, Waterloo and Charing Cross. At London Bridge, with its maze of entrances and exits, they had to take a chance and it was a relief to see their man coming down the steps from Waterloo West and moving off down the road.

  “Underground now, Max,” said the driver. His passenger, who was the older of the two, a thickly-built man with weight-putter’s shoulders and a shovel-shaped inquisitive nose, grunted and got out. Like a lot of big men he was lazy and preferred driving to walking. Luckily Drayling was not moving fast. As predicted, he was making for the Underground station in York Road. Since he bought his ticket at the machine, Max could only do the same and follow him down the long escalator and get into the train two carriages behind him. He had a lot of experience and he knew, from half a dozen tiny indications, that his quarry was, for the moment, easy and unsuspicious.

  It would be different when he got closer to wherever it was he was going.

  Drayling got out at Charing Cross station, passed the frontage of St Martins-in-the-Fields and strolled up the Charing Cross Road. He was walking more slowly now and stopped once or twice to look into booksellers’ windows, as if interested in the titles shown there.

  Max crossed to the other pavement and got well ahead of him. It was usually better to follow a suspicious man from in front. Also he wanted a chance to talk on the bat-phone which lived inconspicuously inside his coat. The car, if it had followed their agreed plan, should be in Soho Square by now. He found an empty doorway and stepped inside.

  “Jonty. Max here. Are you on site?”

  “Been here three minutes. Where’ve you been? Stopped off for a drink somewhere I suppose.”

  Max ignored this. He said, “The bod is coming up Charing Cross Road now. He’s beginning to look fidgety, so I can’t get too close. When he reaches Cambridge Circus, I’ll tell you which way he turns. OK?”

  Jonty, who had done his early service at West End Central, knew Soho. He said, “Dean Street, Greek Street, or maybe Barnard Street or Lord Scrope Street. I can watch the far end of any of them, as soon as we know which one it is.”

  “Right. He’s at the Circus now. I’ll have to shift.”

  When Drayling, after a number of hesitations and looks behind him, reached the corner of Barnard Street, he saw the bulky man, who had been hurrying along the pavement ahead of him, turn off down a side street. There were two girls coming towards him, holding arms and giggling. He let them go past him before he turned into Barnard Street. He was telling himself that it was absurd to be so cautious. No one was in the least interested in him.

  The lighting in Barnard Street was not good and the doorway he wanted, Number 54, was midway between two of the old-fashioned lamp posts. He dived into it as quickly as possible.

  “Did you get him?” said Max.

  “I think so. The doorway in the building two up from the lamp post.”

  “Snap. Can you park the car and come down on foot?”

  They met outside Number 54. It was a tall building of agedarkened brick which might have been put up at any time in the last 150 years. The houses on either side had suffered in the blitz and had been rebuilt, but only up to third-storey height, so that they looked like young friends supporting a taller and frailer man between them. All three buildings seemed to be full of offices. There was a frame inside the doorway of Number 54 which held cards. The ground floor and the three floors above it were occupied by two firms of wholesale fruit importers, a tailor and cutter, a vendor of canteen ware and a commission agent.

  Max went out into the street and peered up.

  “Only lights showing,” he said, “on the top floor.”

  They had noticed that there was a space in the frame for the top floor, but no card.

  Jonty, who was two inches shorter than Max and a few pounds lighter, a welterweight compared to a heavyweight, said, “Suppose I’d better go up and have a squint, eh?”

  “Better have a story ready if he bumps you. What are you doing? Buying a new suit or laying a few bets?”

  “If I hear him, I’ll come down fast. Then we put on the old drunk and fighting act. Right?”

  They were a resourceful pair of goons who often operated together. The routine referred to had caused a useful diversion on more than one difficult occasion. This time it was not needed. A few minutes later Jonty reappeared and said, “There’s a card on the door. Just tacked on. Looks new. Says, ‘The Photographic Supplies Company’. I could see a light under the door and could hear men’s voices. That’s where the old bugger’s holed up, for sure. What now?”

  “I been thinking,” said Max. “What we’d better do is, I’ll stop here. You take the car, quick as you can, to West End Central. There’ll be someone there you know who’ll help. Ask him for the form.”

  Jonty said, “It was four years ago. But if my old oppo, Bill Bailey, is still there, he’d give us what we want. He knows every filthy rat’s nest and whore’s nest in this stinking square mile.”

  Like many policemen he had a puritan streak in him. Some of the episodes during his posting in Soho had turned his stomach. Fortunately Sergeant Bailey was still at West End Central and was available. He welcomed his old friend boisterously and suggested a move to the Eagle and Child. Its private bar had, by long use, become a clubroom for local police officers.

  “OK. But mussen be too long,” said Jonty, “or I’ll get stick from Max.”

  “Doesn’t take long to drink a pint of wallop, boy.”

  “You’ve twisted my arm.”

  As soon as they were settled Sergeant Bailey said, “All right. What can I do for our political arm? What’s the job?”

  “Straight surveillance,” said Jonty. He explained where they had got to.

  “Number 54,” said Bailey thoughtfully. “Yerrs. We’ve been wonderin’ a bit about that. The new people on the top floor. Call themselves photographer
s.”

  “Photographic Supplies.”

  “Pornographic Supplies, more likely.”

  “What gives you that idea?”

  “You haven’t been round the back, have you? No. Well it’s an old house and it’s got one of those real old-fashioned fire escapes. You know the sort I mean? You can jack up the bottom section. Then it’s out of reach of anyone down below. It always used to be kept that way at night, but since the top floor tenants have been there it seems it’s been left down.”

  “Don’t the other tenants object?”

  “Maybe they haven’t spotted it. They’re mostly locked up and away by six o’clock. And it isn’t too easy to see the back of the house, but there’s an old boy has a studio in the block in Lord Scrope Street. He’s a commercial artist and works late. He mentioned once he’d spotted boys going up the escape.”

  “Boys?”

  “Twelve-year olds. That sort of age. He thought they might be sneak-thieves trying to break into the offices. That’s why he reported it.”

  “But you don’t think they were?”

  “If you ask me,” said Sergeant Bailey, “I’d say as like as not they were filthy little brats who’d sell their bums for a fiver.”

  Jonty thought about this. He knew enough about Soho not to be surprised, but his upper lip curled.

  He said, “That’s the scene now, is it?”

  “PE’s the name of the game. Paedophiliac Exchange. We raided a place the other day. They had a collection of photographs of boys in their nothings.”

  “Boys, not girls?”

  “Boys mostly. Photographs and a collection of films. Some of the things they got up to—well—”

  “Has the owner of this one got a name?”

  “In our records he’s a Mr. Lamb. Initials B.A.”

  “Baa Lamb. That’s sweet.”

  “Oh, he’s a sweet person.”

  “And you think that Number 54 is a new PE.”

  “Could be. Looks as if it might be the place they take the photographs and do the filming. We’ve got a friend in the tobacconist’s opposite.”

  By ‘friend’ Jonty understood that he meant someone who would give the police occasional help without doing anything particularly active.

  “He told us he thought he’d seen film equipment going in recently. We’ll find out when we raid it.”

  “When will that be?”

  “When we find time,” said Bailey wearily. “Fast as you rake out one nest the rats set up another.”

  Jonty finished his drink, thanked Bailey and drove back to Barnard Street where he found Max propping up a lamp post.

  “The bod came out ten minutes ago,” he said, “and pissed off. Seeing as how you’d left me on my tod,” he sniffed, “and taken yourself off for a drink – am I right? – I couldn’t do much about him. Anyway I guess he was heading for home. What did you get?”

  Jonty told him what he’d got. He said, “So what do we do now?”

  “Report,” said Max.

  6

  Two days later when Anthony got back after a frustrating afternoon spent trying to locate a certain Simon Leibovitz – one of his charges who had absconded for the second time from home without leaving an address – his wife said, “There’s a man been to see you. He came about an hour ago, waited for a bit and then pushed off and said he’d look in later. Name of Robinson.”

  “Robinson?” Anthony made a mental check of the people on his conscience, but Robinson rang no bells. “What sort of man?”

  “A policeman, I guess. From the way he barged in here as though the place belonged to him.”

  “Then I hope he gives me time to finish my supper before he barges in again. It’s been one of those days.” Over his supper he told her about it. It was always a relief to do this.

  His visitor arrived with the coffee. Anthony thought that his wife’s instinct had been correct. The man was thin and slight, neatly dressed, but not too neatly. He had a scarred and pitted face and a clipped moustache. If he was a policeman, he was a fairly senior one. He refused the offer of a cup of coffee and Sandra, gathering that the conversation would be official, withdrew to the kitchen to do the washing-up.

  She guessed that she would hear all about it later.

  As soon as the door was shut, his visitor said, “You’ve been making enquiries about a man called Firn. Why?”

  “Before I answer any questions,” said Anthony, “I’d like to know a little more about you. You introduced yourself to my wife as Mr. Robinson.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, we’d get on a lot more easily if you told me your real name. And rank. Chief Superintendent? Commander?”

  His visitor’s face, which had been registering disapproval, thawed very slightly.

  “Chief Superintendent Bearstead.”

  “Then you must be – let me think – second in command to Elfe at Special Branch.”

  “You know Commander Elfe?”

  “Jack Elfe stayed in my house for a few days when he came out to Rawalpindi four years ago. It was he who pointed Firn out to me.”

  “I see,” said Bearstead. He had relaxed at the mention of Elfe’s name, but now seemed to be climbing back on to his official horse. “That explains how you knew the man’s name, but it doesn’t explain why you’re making personal enquiries about him.”

  “Let’s be clear about that. They’re not personal.”

  “No?”

  “I’m making them as part of my duty to the court, which is to find out everything I can about two lots of boys – their friends, their visitors and their background. And I made this particular enquiry through Mr. Norrie, the Metropolitan Magistrate, and he passed it on through Chief Superintendent Tancred, at District. And now will you have that drink I offered you? I usually take a glass of whisky as a night cap.”

  If he says yes, thought Anthony, we might get somewhere. If he says no, we’re stuck.

  “Thank you,” said Bearstead. “With plenty of water in it.” He swirled the drink round in the glass. He seemed to be giving himself time to think. Then he said, “When you were in Pakistan I imagine you were doing the same sort of job as you are here.”

  “Actually, no. I was a teacher.”

  A drop in temperature.

  Bearstead said, “Oh, a schoolmaster.”

  “Why is it,” said Anthony, “that whenever anyone admits that he has taught in a school he is automatically distrusted and disliked?”

  Bearstead thought about this, downed some of the whisky and, to Anthony’s relief, smiled. “I suppose,” he said, “it’s because most of us suffered from them when we were young. All right, I’ll come to the point. But first, I’ll have to have your word that nothing I say goes any further. No further at all. Not one inch. Not to your wife, not to that magistrate, not to Tancred at District.”

  Anthony said, “That’s asking for two lots of trouble. Domestic and professional. I could agree about my wife – reluctantly. But if what you’re going to tell me affects the boys – which I imagine it does – then I’ve got to tell Norrie. I report to him. That’s part of my duty.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bearstead flatly. “It happens that you’re in a position to help us. I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said in a unique position. And unless I have your word, I can’t go any further.”

  Anthony hesitated. It was not only curiosity. It was also that, for no very definite reason, he was beginning to like and trust this thin, sundried man. In his job he met policemen of all sizes and qualities, some of them nice and reliable, some nasty and unreliable; all of them pulled in opposite directions by the conflict of power with responsibility. He felt prepared, on five minutes acquaintanceship, to put Bearstead into the top echelon.

  He said, “Couldn’t we compromise on this? I’ll promise that I’ll only say anything to Norrie after I’ve cleared it with you and got your consent.”

  Bearstead said, “If we didn’t need you so badly, I wouldn’t even agree to that
. But we do, so I will.” He paused and took the sort of deep breath a man takes before he dives into cold water. “How much do you know about the activities of terrorists?”

  “Only what I read in the press.”

  “They get their share of media coverage,” said Bearstead drily. “At the moment, then, there are four main groups. I’m not putting them in order of importance or efficiency. There’s the PLO in the Middle East. They’re a fragmented organisation now, not a single unit, which means they’ve lost a lot of their sharp edge. There’s the Brigata Rossa in Italy, there’s the Red Army Faction in Germany, who took over from the Baader-Meinhoff lot when its leaders were liquidated – or liquidated themselves – and last, but by no means least, there’s the IRA. There are smaller groups, like the ETA Basque Independence movement, the Armenians in Turkey and the Moluccan Freedom Fighters in Holland. I don’t say they’re not dangerous, but they don’t present the same problem to us, as they confine themselves mostly to their own patch. The other four are international. They’ll hijack a plane flying from Paris to Morocco, murder a diplomat in Ankara or a policeman in Liverpool and sometimes it’s difficult to see what they hope to gain by it.”

  “Might it be to persuade the people who supply them with money that they’re earning their keep?”

  “Could be. Or there might be nothing that you or I would consider a sensible reason. They’re fanatics. Which means that they’re not too worried about being caught or killed on the job. And they all suffer from the same built-in weakness. Their organisations are loose enough to be penetrated and all of them have been. Sometimes it might be only marginal penetration, like knowing where their funds come from and who passes messages and so on. But it means that if they’ve got an important job to do – what they call targeted action – they like to get outside help. Which brings in one of two or three real professionals who’ll work for anyone who pays them. People like Willi Voss and Carlos Sanchez. Or Zohair Akache, who was killed by the SAS at Mogadishu. Before he joined the PLO Zohair had been working for the Baader Meinhoff group and before that for the ETA. They are chameleons. They adopt the names and nationalities of the group they are helping. The one we are now interested in calls himself Liam and has probably cultivated a sweet Irish accent. Actually, so far as we know he’s a Lithuanian. Russian-trained, like the others.”