Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  CHAPTER 14

  UNIONE CORSE

  Vince arrived at Edward Street police station at 8.30 a.m. Outside, well-groomed, clipped-voiced reporters were holding microphones, talking to the cameras. They had an energy and sense of emergency about them that told him this wasn’t about the Kemp Town junkies. This was today’s news.

  He walked through to the incident room. All eyes were on him, he thought. He interpreted the looks he was getting from the coppers, right down to the tea lady making her morning rounds, as knowledge of his guilt. He had compromised the case by his behaviour with Bobbie.

  ‘Morning, guv,’ said Ginge sitting at his desk, his face darting up from the paperwork in front of him. ‘You got two calls.’ He picked up his pad. ‘Some fella called Terence, said you’d know him. And Ray Dryden rang twenty minutes ago, said it was urgent. And the guv’s been trying to contact you. We’ve got two more bodies.’

  ‘Heroin?’ Ginge gave a solemn nod. Vince appreciated the copper-topped copper’s customary springy self; it helped wipe away his paranoia. He looked around the office with fresh eyes, found no one was looking at him. They were engrossed in their work: making calls, pulling files, clipping mugshots on to cork boards. Vince knocked on Machin’s door. He heard a cough, a clearing of the throat, and what sounded like gob descending into a waste-paper basket, that was followed by a gruff, ‘Come in.’

  Vince opened the door and entered. Machin sat at his desk, a pile of paperwork in front him, knocking back a live Pepto-Bismol that was still fizzing away in a tall glass. Rough as guts and thoroughly poisoned, Machin looked at Vince through hooded, bloodshot eyes. They greeted each other with sheepish nods, both carrying a burden of guilt they couldn’t shake off from the previous night. Like the cold war, with its mutually assured destruction, it had a harmonious effect. Neither of them tried to scramble on to the moral high ground; they just cracked on with the business at hand.

  ‘You heard?’

  ‘Two more dead on heroin,’ confirmed Vince, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Terminus Road, by the station. Males about the same age. Same deal. Same gear.’

  Vince thought the name of the road was apt, as he slumped into the chair opposite Machin.

  Machin leaned back in his own chair. ‘I tried calling you at the hotel. Where were you?’

  Vince rubbed his brow with his thumb and forefinger, as if he was soothing a hangover. His hand meanwhile formed a visor on his forehead, shading his expression from Machin’s prying gaze. ‘I was out,’ he replied in a tired voice.

  ‘I heard you got jumped last night,’ said Machin. ‘Long George said it was just some kids, that right?’ Vince gave a jaded nod. Machin shook his head in disgust. ‘The little bastards, they’ve been causing havoc all this bank holiday. Mods, Rockers, fucking hooligans the lot of them. We’re calling in more coppers from the surrounding counties for the rest of the weekend. That said, it’s been kicking off all over the place: Clacton, Southend, Hastings.’

  Machin picked up a biro from his desk as if to start work, and stared at the blank sheets of paper that needed filling. He bit the tip of the biro, then threw it down. ‘Listen, son, about last night … about your brother, I was out of order. I get a few drinks inside me and start flapping my lip.’

  ‘Forget it, I’d have found out anyway, one way or another,’ said Vince.

  ‘Maybe I should have told you about him earlier …’

  ‘No one likes to be the bearer of bad news, and when it comes to Vaughn that’s all there is.’ Keen to change the subject Vince pointed to the window and said, ‘You’ve got quite a press pack outside. They baying for blood yet?’

  Machin reached under his pile of papers and pulled out an edition of the Evening Argus, which he handed to Vince. The paper was open at page four. The rioting Mods and Rockers, with their generational moral panic, had managed to kick it off the front page. The headline read: ‘Police Helpless in the Face of the Deadly Plague Sweeping Brighton!’

  Vince picked up the paper. ‘Mind if I take this?’

  Machin, without looking up, replied, ‘Be my guest.’

  Vince stood up, walked over to open the door, and then timed to perfection his throwaway afterthought – and the real reason he was there. ‘Oh, yeah, another thing. I mentioned him last night, but what have you got on Max Vogel?’

  Machin took a cigarette out of the packet lying on the desk, picked up a box of matches and fished about for a live one amongst the dead littering the box. His hands shook, but Vince gave him the benefit of the doubt and put it down to the booze. Machin found a live match and lit up his cigarette. He sucked down the smoke, studied the tip of the cigarette, then blew the smoke on to it so that it glowed. ‘Vogel? Antique dealer. Got a shop in the Lanes. Why you so interested in him?’

  Vince gave a slack shrug, carrying on the game of nonchalance they were both engaged in. ‘Nothing much but, like I said, I saw him with Pierce at the races.’

  ‘Lots of people go to the races, son. Who else did you see?’

  ‘All the usual faces. Tell me, is Murray the Head still the best fourth-floor man in the business?’

  ‘Was he at the races?’

  Vince nodded. ‘Had a nice suntan on him.’

  ‘You know Murray, he likes to holiday on the Riviera, Monte Carlo, anywhere there’s rich women with big tom staying in big hotels with slack security. Word is he’s just come back from a job, south of France. That movie star Zsa Zsa Gabor had her jewellery pinched. Made all the papers.’

  ‘Yeah, I read about it. That was the Head?’

  Machin smiled and shrugged. ‘That’s the rumour.’

  ‘He couldn’t have just been after her autograph?’

  Machin laughed, a little too hearty for a man with his hangover, and also a little too hearty for Vince’s liking. Vince wasn’t going to let him off the hook. ‘The Head fence any of his stuff with Vogel, down here?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Machin, no longer laughing. ‘The Head doesn’t pull jobs here in the town – not rich enough pickings for him. But, more importantly, his old mum still lives here. And, to her, Murray’s still a good Jewish boy at heart.’

  ‘Vogel interests me, talking to Pierce like that.’

  ‘It’s a small town, son. People run into each other and they talk. No law against that.’

  ‘They didn’t run into each other, because Pierce sought him out. But they did talk, for about twenty minutes. Vogel looked like he had a lot to say, and Pierce did a lot of listening.’

  Machin looked up at him and announced solidly, ‘If a country house gets turned over, Brighton’s the first place they look. And we do a regular sweep of all the dealers in the town. Nothing on Vogel, but I’ll run a check for you.’

  ‘Thanks. But you’re right, it’s probably nothing,’ said Vince placatingly and continued through the door.

  Machin stubbed out his cigarette, picked up his pen, and put his head down for some work. Vince thought of Machin in the Brunswick Sporting Club – toiling away at the tables, regularly losing, feeding Sammy Bellman’s gambling house and fattening Jack’s coffers – meant nothing; he probably had an account at one of Jack’s whorehouses for when his amphetamine jags led him astray from the fat wife. But Vogel meant something to him. And it was proof, if proof were needed, that Machin was dirty. He was protecting Max Vogel, therefore Jack’s bank.

  Vince smiled and closed the door behind him.

  Vince picked up the phone and dialled the number. He was seated at his desk in the basement, staring at a window that was painted over in green. Behind it he could hear the constant trickle of water. The view behind the green paint had to be a brick wall with blocked guttering and waste water cascading down it. The view summed up this case, he thought.

  ‘Ray Dryden,’ responded the energetic voice down the line.

  ‘What do you say, Ray?’

  ‘Vincenzo! Hold on a second.’ The rustle of papers. ‘Sitting comfortably?’

 
‘How could I not? This office they’ve assigned me is the lap of luxury.’

  ‘Remember what I told you about the Unione Corse?’

  ‘Yeah, the French mob. Heroin distribution.’

  ‘OK, now, I ran a check on your boy, Jacques Rinieri. In 1961, New York City, one Antoine Rinieri, Corsican, worked out of Marseilles. Very close with Paul Carbone, the boss of the Marseilles faction of the Unione Corse. French Interpol had been trailing Antoine Rinieri for a couple of months, because he’d been doing a lot of travelling of late. Especially out in Bangkok, Laos and Vietnam, where there are big French colonies. Anyway, they’d linked up with the FBI, because he’d made a couple of trips to the US. The FBI found him in a place called Pleasant Avenue, in East Harlem – or Italian Harlem as it’s known in New York City. He was picked up with two hundred and sixty thousand dollars on him. When the Yanks collared him, they realized the money was from a drugs deal. Pleasant Avenue is the district where the Mob distributes heroin. They interrogated Rinieri, but got nothing, not a word. The Corsicans are tough, don’t open their mouths, don’t cut deals. They won’t admit to anything, especially being part of the Unione Corse.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘They banged him up for six months, then they deported him back to France. The thing that really got up the Yanks’ noses, is that in the end they couldn’t actually connect the two hundred and sixty grand with a drug deal, so Uncle Sam had to pay the frog back his money – with the six months’ interest on top!’

  ‘You think Jack and Antoine, they’re related?

  ‘The Unione Corse are clannish, they work only with their close family.’

  ‘Like the Mafia?’

  ‘Very similar MO,’ said Ray Dryden, ‘but even more tightly knit. We’re talking about brothers, cousins, blood relations. I checked: Antoine Rinieri had four brothers. One served with distinction in the French Resistance and became a schoolteacher, one got killed in a motorcycle accident just after the war. Two other brothers we have no names for: seemed to have disappeared off the dial. When did your boy come to England?’

  ‘In the twenties, when he could only have been about fifteen, sixteen.’ Vince could almost hear Ray’s brain ticking over.

  ‘Maybe he had to leave Corsica,’ said Ray after considered thought. ‘For centuries that island has been invaded, raped and pillaged. There’re two things Corsicans know, and one is how to hold a grudge.’

  ‘What’s the other?’

  ‘Revenge. It’s in their blood. They’ve got Moorish blood running through them, which means they’re a warrior race. He could have got in a feud with someone, and England was as good a place as any to come to. From what I’ve read up on Jack Regent, he’s a resourceful fellow, could do what he does anywhere: Corsica, Marseilles, New York, London, Brighton. Like I say, Vince, it’s in his blood. You can’t escape your blood.’

  Vince wrapped up the conversation, agreeing they’d be in touch as soon as one of them found out more. Vince thought again about the young Jack, and the bloody feud that might have brought him to these shores, and the two of them together. From the parched hills of Corsica to the damp hills of Albion. He could imagine the insult, something about his club foot; and Jack responding how he always would – with violence. You can’t escape your blood.

  The phone rang. It was Ginge to tell him that Henry Pierce had turned up for his interview.

  CHAPTER 15

  BIG CHIEF MASHIGINA

  Vince headed through to the interview room. He’d pulled Henry Pierce’s form sheet on the way and was giving it a read. The weighty tome was ring-bound and bulging with a cornucopia of crime and violence that he had mostly got away with.

  Machin was waiting for Vince outside the interview room. He was pacing up and down, his yellow-stained fingers holding the hot, wet butt of a cigarette that was smoked down to the ink. He looked nervous.

  ‘Is he in there?’ asked Vince.

  Machin stubbed out his cigarette into the sandpit of the knee-high cylindrical ashtray. ‘Ready and waiting. No brief with him. How do you want to play it, son?’

  Vince replied firmly, ‘Just do me a favour. Don’t call me “son” in front of him.’

  Machin gave a brief nod and they entered.

  Pierce was sitting at the table. His hands rested in front of him on the top of the gnarled white stick. The small room made his huge bulk just look bigger. In his customary black garb, all slightly faded and cruddy up close, he looked as if he belonged on a plinth in the middle of some roundabout in central London.

  Sitting on the desk in its pearl-grey leatherette case was a Grundig TK20 reel-to-reel tape recorder.

  Machin spoke first. ‘Mr Pierce, I’m with Detective Vin—’

  ‘I know who you’re with.’ Pierce sniffed the air. ‘Piss and vinegar.’

  Vince and Machin exchanged glances, then sat down.

  Vince: ‘Seeing as you’ve not brought a solicitor with you, Mr Pierce, we’ve decided it might be best to tape this interview.’

  Pierce considered this, running the tip of his tongue around his liver-coloured lips, eventually uttering ‘That’s a new one on me, copper, and I’m no stranger to this particular establishment. But if you think it’s for the best …’

  ‘Considering you’re blind, and can’t make out or sign a written statement, it’s a precaution I thought we should take.’

  ‘Well then, Detective Treadwell, I best make sure I’m in fine voice for my recording debut.’ Pierce cleared his throat theatrically and then started to sing ‘Mister Sandman’.

  Vince knew the song. It was loud and clear, piercingly so. And he knew that the Sandman was capable of bringing nightmares – like last night – as well as dreams.

  Pierce: ‘You recognize the tune, do you?’

  Vince reached over to the Grundig TK20 and pressed record.

  Pierce reached over, found the off switch, and pressed it.

  Machin smirked.

  Vince looked slightly confused. Then pressed record.

  Pierce pressed off.

  Audible sniggers from Machin.

  Vince moved to press record again, then froze with his finger hovering over the red button.

  Pierce pursed his lips, then relaxed.

  Vince rested his hand on the table, satisfied with what he’d seen.

  Pierce: ‘I want to talk to you, Detective Treadwell, on your own.’

  Machin stopped smirking, looked concerned. Then he piped up, ‘I’m afraid there has to be a another officer present at—’

  Pierce cut in: ‘Then arrest me and charge me with something. Otherwise I’m going to get up and walk out of here, unless I get my needs met.’

  Vince considered Pierce. A record of violence, intimidation and madness. But capable of putting together a sane sentence. And a real cunning lurking beneath. Vince turned to Machin, who was looking intently at Pierce, and said, ‘I think we can accommodate Mr Pierce.’

  Machin didn’t like this. This was his police station, his rules, and he wasn’t moving or accommodating anyone.

  Pierce turned his head and looked at Machin.

  Machin laughed, making a joke of it. ‘It’s like you can see right through me, Henry.’ He mock-shivered as if he was spooked. No one laughed, and he stopped chuckling. But he couldn’t stop being spooked. ‘I’ll be outside if you need me,’ he said to Vince, as he left the room.

  Pierce smiled. ‘Ah, we can all breathe easy now that cunt’s gone.’

  Vince wanted to agree, but didn’t. ‘Sorry about your boy, Spider. That was rash of me.’ Not a nod, a shrug, or even an involuntary twitch. The apology didn’t register with Pierce, because the violent incident meant nothing to a man who dealt in violent incidents.

  ‘So tell me, Detective, what’s on your mind?’

  ‘First of all, I want to know the whereabouts of Jack Regent, and how a body turned up on the beach.’

  Pierce tapped his stick on the floor and beat out, ‘No no no no no no!’ He s
topped tapping the stick then said, ‘Your mind. The contents of your mind. Not what you want to know. If you don’t already know it, it’s not on your mind.’

  Vince knew this was too good to be true: Pierce was back with Big Chief Mashigina. Vince knew he wasn’t interested in what was on his mind. Pierce was a performer, a stage-hogging psychopath. Sounding off and giving coppers the run-around had been elevated to an art form in his hands. So let him perform, let him talk, thought Vince. Loosen him up and he might let something slip without knowing it.

  ‘OK, Henry, I’m curious. Why’s Jack the boss, and not you?’

  Pierce didn’t answer, he treated the question as though it was a trap. Which it was.

  Vince then continued. ‘You’re tough, resourceful and people are scared of you. You’ve got all the qualities to be the boss.’

  Pierce smiled again. There was a slight wobble of the head, some clearing of the throat.

  ‘Jack had seen me wrestle. He knew me by reputation before we actually met. And, of course, I knew Jack, knew him by reputation, too. And I knew that he’d moved down here with old man Sabini. After me seven in Broadmoor, Jack offered me some work. I didn’t say yes, didn’t say no. Kept me options open. Before the war you see, Brighton was wide open. There was a few faces floating about – one horrible piece of work in particular. Scottish he was, had bright red hair, stuck out like a sore thumb. Forget his name. Fancied himself, though …’ Pierce cocked his head to one side, reliving the story.

  Vince thought about turning on the tape-recorder, but knew the Red Indian would sniff him out.

  ‘We was playing cards in a club, one of Sammy Bellman’s places. The Scotsman’s there, talking himself up. He’d been winning all night. We all thought he was lucky. He was lucky, until Jack walked in and sat opposite him. He was about eye-level with Jack, and I think that was his first mistake. Jack don’t like anyone looking at him. They played a bit, with everyone hoping the Scotsman’s luck would hold. It didn’t. He kept on winning, taking Jack’s money, but I knew what was gonna happen – on the cards, as they say. No one gave a fuck about the Scotsman now; he was finished. The Dying Scotsman coming in right on time. When it happened it was quick. You can usually tell when someone is gonna do someone. They give off warning signals, can be anything: nostrils flaring, lips twitching, ears burning, anything. Not Jack. No grace notes from him. He just did it, like turning off a light. I don’t know who actually did turn off the light, but when it got turned back on again, the gaff was empty. Just the Scotsman lying over the table, in a pool of his own blood. Throat cut. And that’s the night I decided to throw my lot in with Jack. I knew my place. You see, Jack just had that something extra, that certain quality. A quality that he either had in abundance, or a quality he didn’t have at all. He either was, or he wasn’t.’