‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as she unfolded her legs and slipped her feet into her shoes to make room for him on the sofa. ‘I didn’t know what to say when that lady at the desk asked who I was, a strange woman turning up at your hotel. Saying “Your wife” sounded more respectable.’
He gave an appreciative nod, then followed through with an uncertain smile. ‘But a wife turning up at my hotel in tears, I’m not too sure how respectable that is.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘It’s nice to know, though.’
‘What is?’
‘That you wouldn’t want your wife to cry.’
‘I didn’t say that. I just said I wouldn’t want her turning up at my hotel.’
She saw that he was joking and managed a smile, too.
‘If I may ask why you’ve been crying?’
‘Can we go somewhere more private?’
Vince nodded and suggested, ‘My room?’
Bobbie collected her cigarettes and lighter off the table, stood up and followed him out of the lounge.
Up in his room, Bobbie had flipped off her shoes and plonked herself down in the armchair, in what Vince could only take to be her default sitting position: legs curled under her.
He pulled down his suitcase that had been stashed on top of the wardrobe and put it on the bed, then opened it up and took out a small brown phial containing his pills.
She looked at Vince as he popped a pill. ‘What are those?’ she asked.
Vince swallowed the pill without water, then read out the label, stumbling over the pronunciation, ‘Recal … dro … lycine. They’re for headaches.’
She frowned. ‘What kind of headaches?’
‘The kind of headaches you get when you’ve been in a coma for three weeks.’
‘Three weeks?’ Bobbie’s eyes widened. ‘Are you … fully recovered?’
‘Apart from the headaches, and a little nausea – but they told me those’ll just pass,’ replied Vince, looking down at the bottle of pills. He leaned back against the chest of drawers, flipped the bottle of pills from hand to hand, and smiled. ‘The doc said some people undergo a complete personality change after emerging from a coma. All the things they used to like, they have no more interest in – books, movies, food, women. They almost get two lives for the price of one, as well as a bang on the head.’
‘How about you? Did you get two lives?’
‘I don’t know. I like the same movies, same food. And I still can’t play the piano, so I guess I got lucky – or unlucky. It depends on what you thought of your life before.’
‘How about your taste in women, has that changed?’
‘No, I still like them old and ugly.’
She laughed. ‘How did it happen – the coma, not your taste in ugly old women?’
Vince took a deep breath and sighed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s a moot point. Some people say I must have fallen somehow and hit my head.’
‘What do you say?’
‘I say I can’t remember.’ Determined. ‘But I will.’
Bobbie just nodded, seeing that he didn’t want to take this conversation any further. Vince threw the bottle of pills back into the case, and sat down on the corner of the bed. ‘So why the tears?’
She composed herself briefly, then said, ‘Henry Pierce.’ She knew that name alone was enough to get his full attention.
It did. Vince straightened up. ‘What about him?’
‘I got a call from him at the flat, about an hour ago. Henry has never phoned there before. Even when Jack was around, he would never call. Jack wouldn’t allow it. Like I said, Jack kept his business and personal life very separate. He kept me very separate.’
‘But Jack’s not here now,’ said Vince, looking squarely into eyes that were still red-rimmed from tears. ‘The rules have changed, whether you like it or not.’
Bobbie nodded, conceded the point, and let out a fearful little sigh. ‘He’s never liked me,’ she said.
‘Henry never liked anyone.’
‘Apart from Jack.’
Vince arched his eyebrows and moved his head from side to side, weighing up that claim, but clearly feeling doubt. ‘Henry Pierce fears Jack. There’s a world of difference.’
‘Either way, he despises my intrusion on Jack. There’s something else, too.’ Bobbie picked up her cigarettes. ‘May I?’ Vince nodded and handed her the small glass ashtray from his bedside table. She lit up a cigarette and took a long, thoughtful drag. ‘I was the one who blinded Henry – did you know that?’ She stared solidly at Vince. It was a dramatic statement, delivered with dramatic intent and poise. The cigarette struck Vince as a prop to provide theatrical flourish. But he had heard a lot worse, and coolly instructed her to carry on.
‘That’s what Jack told me,’ she continued, ‘by way of a joke.’
‘A joke, eh? What made him come up with that particular sidesplitter?’
A small laugh rocked her head back. ‘Henry went blind soon after he met me. It was my first night on stage, and Jack brought Henry round to the club with some other men.’
‘Who were the other men?’
‘They were from out of town.’
‘Apart from Jack, any Frenchmen amongst them?’
She creased her brow quizzically. ‘French?’
‘Just a lead we’re following. Doesn’t matter. Go on.’
‘I was introduced to them but I can’t remember. They all sort of looked the same.’
‘Strangers to choir practice?’
‘Exactly. They looked like the kind of men Jack would be doing business with. Apart from Dickie Eton … no one looks quite like Dickie.’
‘Yeah, so I hear.’
‘Jack brought Dickie down to hear me sing, and I joined them at their table after my set. Jack then introduced me to Henry Pierce. He stood up, like a real gentleman, took my hand and kissed it. He scared me. But, then again, that’s his job. He looked at the brooch I was wearing—’
‘The brooch you wore last night?’
She nodded. ‘He asked if he could hold it. I thought that was odd. I remember Jack just gave me a little smile like I was dealing with a child who should be indulged. So I took the brooch off and handed it to him, but he hardly looked at it. To be honest, I thought he was looking at my tits. I told Jack this, and he laughed, said I had nothing to worry about. Told me Henry had no interest in such things.’
‘The brooch is paste, right?’
‘I brought it with me.’ She picked up the clutch bag by her side, unhooked the little gold hand, and took out the brooch.
Vince stepped over to her and inspected it. The little bird with outstretched wings was a phoenix rising from a spray of diamanté cut stone that represented the fire. It was cheaply cast costume jewellery of no real intrinsic value. Vince handed her back the brooch and sat back down on the corner of the bed.
Then he said, ‘I don’t think he was out to steal it.’
She looked at the brooch, assessing it. ‘No, I guess not. It just struck me as odd.’
‘Why do you even wear it? Jack could get you all the diamonds you want.’
She threw him a sharp look and curtly replied, ‘You think I’m a gold digger?’
He looked again at the brooch, which she was turning over in her hand, caressing it as if it held the power of a magic amulet. ‘Just curious,’ he said.
‘I’ve had it for years.’
‘Well, that brooch, nice as it is, is pretty worthless. And, unless you pinched it from the tomb of Tutankhamun, there’s nothing to be scared of.’ Vince saw that she wasn’t following his lead and laughing it off. ‘Sentimental value, uh?’
‘Not really,’ said Bobbie. ‘But the dress is. It belonged to my mother. It had a tear in it when I got it, so I bought the brooch to cover it.’
‘Belonged to your mother?’
Bobbie looked uncomfortable, her eyes darting downwards. S
he put the brooch back in her bag and snapped the little gold hand clasp shut. ‘My mother passed away … two years ago if you must know.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Seeing the bereavement was still fresh for her, he left a solemn little pause before he said, ‘Let’s get back to what happened tonight.’
‘Like I said, Henry called me at the flat. He wanted to come round, to talk to me privately. Wanted to know about you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Nothing. Because I know nothing. And anyway it’s none of his business.’
‘His driver, Spider, saw us together at the party you took me to. I’m assuming he told Pierce. He knows who I am now. Before he called you, I met up with him at the races. We had a slight altercation.’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Nothing much. But it makes sense that Pierce would want to know what your movements are, who you’re seeing, who you’re talking to. You’re the boss’s girl, after all.’ Vince stood up and went over to the chest of drawers, opened them in turn and took out the few items he’d neatly folded inside, and transferred them to his suitcase. ‘It was probably Pierce’s men who jumped me last night.’
‘I’m not anyone’s girl,’ she said firmly, crushing her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like? I’m packing.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Always fancied an open-top sports car driving around Europe. Italy, south of France, Monte Carlo …’
‘Isn’t the south of France a little too rich for a policeman’s pay packet?’
‘A policeman who got hit on the head and put into a coma gets compensation. And I’ve also got holiday back pay. Haven’t taken one in four years – too busy being a copper and trying to build a career. I’m pretty well fixed for dosh.’
‘So you’re running out on me?’
‘I was never in with you to run out on you. If that makes sense. Even if it doesn’t, it does to me. This case is a waste of time. Brick walls and dead ends is all I’ve run up against. And that’s not good for headaches. Everyone knows Jack did the murder, but Jack’s not here. Someone may run into him at some time, but not in Brighton, not now. Truth is, I was sent down here to recuperate, and to be out of the way of another case I was working on. But my superintendent, knowing me to be the industrious ambitious type, threw me the Jack case. Well, I’m done with it now. And if I’m going to take in some sea air, I’d rather be lying on sand not stones, and eating calamari not chips. Can I be honest with you, Miss Drinkwater?’
Bobbie’s eyes narrowed on hearing her real name. ‘Go ahead, Mr Treadwell.’
‘You’re worried about Henry Pierce, right?’ She nodded. ‘Well, you’ve got every right to be,’ he said. ‘Pierce is a dangerous man who works for another more dangerous man, who controls lots of other little dangerous men. You got yourself into this mess and you’ll have to get yourself out.’
Bobbie uncurled her legs, and slipped her feet into her shoes.
‘I don’t know what you saw in Jack,’ he continued. ‘Was it the power, the glamour or just middle-class kicks?’ She still didn’t answer. Irritated, Vince threw the last of his shirts into his suitcase and said, ‘Let me tell you about Jack Regent, and what he’s really about. Last night, the man on the beach …’
Vince was going to tell her the story of Billy the Schnozz. And how it came to pass that he’d gone from a vainglorious braggart to a broken shell of a man looking thirty years older than he really was, with a death sentence scrawled on his forehead, and reading the obituaries to the sea. But he couldn’t, because it was too suffused with the past. A world he wanted to distance himself from. He just wanted to get in his car and drive away, feel the sun on his face and foreign accents in his ears. He was sick of Brighton. And, anyway, what did he care about the company she kept? The men she shared her bed with? What did he care? Too much. And he knew it.
‘Forget it. My advice is leave town. Go back to the New Forest and the two black Labradors in the garden.’
‘I don’t want to leave. Why should I? I’ve got my club and—’
Vince cut in, hard. ‘If it’s your club keeping you here, forget it. Because everyone else has, so why shouldn’t you? It’s dead now. Here’s the news: you were never the main attraction, the star turn. It was Jack they came to see. He pulled in the crowd. And now he’s gone, so have they. Way I see it, you’ve got two choices, Miss Drinkwater: leave town and rack it up to experience, like a true actress; or wait for the next psycho to come along and fill Jack’s crippled boots, and then cosy up to him—’
Before he could finish, Bobbie was on her feet and had slapped him. Hard. He didn’t move. She slapped him again. Harder. With his torched cheek, he still didn’t move. She went for the hat-trick; he grabbed her hand mid-slap and held it in the air.
‘You lie with dogs, you get fleas. Don’t take it out on me,’ he said, pushing her back into the chair.
Her breath turned loud and juddery as a delta of tears rippled out of her.
Vince stood there, rooted to the floor, feeling like an awkward bully – even though she was the one who had done the slapping, and he was the one with the torched cheek. It was the parting shot he’d had in his sights since the first time he’d set eyes on her, yet it gave little satisfaction. He went back to his case and zipped it up, ready to leave. He looked around at the sobbing girl. The tears seemed real enough. No method acting here. She was, if anything, attempting to suppress the tears, but was failing miserably. Her slender frame quivered like a just plucked bow. If left alone, she looked as if she would be sobbing her heart out on the floor.
A small voice: ‘I’m scared.’
With an enervated sigh, he said, ‘Go see Machin.’
‘I don’t trust him.’
Vince couldn’t argue with that. He sat down again on the corner of the bed. Elbows on knees, head bowed, hands running through his hair, exasperated and exhausted with it all. ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’
‘I don’t want to be alone tonight.’
He stopped running his hands through his hair and looked up towards her. ‘You can’t stay here. I’ll drop you back home. You’ll have to—’
‘I’m sorry I slapped you.’
‘It’s OK. Not the first time it’s happened.’
‘And not the last, I imagine.’
Vince smiled. ‘No, you’re probably right there.’
She looked up at him with eyes that meant it, and said, ‘I trust you, Vincent.’
Ten minutes later they were getting into the Triumph Herald. Before they set off, Vince was struck by a new thought. A new player. ‘What do you know about Max Vogel?’
‘The antique dealer?’
Vince nodded.
‘I know Jack did business with him.’
‘Fencing the antiques the knocker boys got hold of?’
‘Vogel’s in the antiques game, so I guess so. But, more than that, I know that Jack respected him.’
‘How do you mean?’
She shrugged uncertainly, but was working on that most formidable of intuitions: female. ‘Vogel wasn’t just another lackey. I think Jack trusted him with certain things that he wouldn’t trust other people with.’
‘Like what?’
She gave another speculative shrug. ‘Money?’
Treble Dutch began to make sense to Vince. Jack was undoubtedly rich but, as Bobbie pointed out about the flat, he possessed very little that was actually in his name. He relied on and trusted others to honour business agreements that were not backed up on paper. They were, of course, backed up by fear, more potent a guarantee than any contract could provide. No small print, just big pain if the contract was broken. That made it easy for Jack to disappear into the wind, relying on a network of off-shore accounts holding Jack’s untraceable money. No doubt about it, Jack would need men like Max Vogel.
Vince twirled the key in the ignition, started the engine, then turned to
Bobbie. ‘Before we head back to your place, I want to stop off somewhere first.’
‘Swordfish.’
‘Swordfish?’ repeated the fuzzy electric voice over the intercom.
‘That’s right, Swordfish,’ replied Vince. He was standing in the vestibule of a four-storey Regency town house in Brunswick Square.
Vince thought he heard some chuckling in the background as he said the fabled password. He looked over at Bobbie seated in the car, fixing her hair in the rear-view mirror. Hair done, she looked over at him and waved. He smiled, waved back, then was buzzed in.
Vince scoped the rooms of the Brunswick Sporting Club. The layout was just as Terence described. Wall-to-wall red carpet. A full-on full-service casino. Tables offering roulette, craps, blackjack, stud and four-card poker, chemmy. A caged caissier’s desk. Pretty young waitresses in revealing little numbers ferried drinks from the bar to the tables. In another room, big-hit slot machines lined the walls; the slots only accepted tokens that needed to be cashed with the caissier in the event of a jackpot. The Brunswick Sporting Club was clearly doing cracking business.
It was the usual casino crowd: a handful of hopefuls who thought they could beat the house; and, if cuts of suits and the quality of wristwatches were anything to go by, a smattering of punters with serious money. But they all had one thing in common: the gambler’s mindset – optimism and cynicism held in one hand. And, like all people who chase money through games of chance, the air they breathed was malodorous with jaded desperation. No clocks on the walls, no timely reminders that their luck was up.
A big fleshy hand was laid on his shoulder. ‘Ach! Such mischief! I heard about the kerfuffle at the races! Are you pots!?’
Vince turned around. ‘What are you talking about, Long George?’
Long George leaned into him, eyes bulging under the magnification of his heavy-rimmed glasses, and said, ‘Henry Pierce. Crazy Horse! Big Chief Mashigina himself! Much I care for the man, but you ruffled his feathers. And when Big Chief Mashigina has his feathers ruffled, we all feel the flap. I thought you was a good boy. What was the cause? What was the cause?’
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