Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  Bobbie dutifully brought him in cups of tea every fifteen minutes. Laid them down on the floor, then stood by the door for a few moments, watching him go about his work, making his notes, cross-referencing, looking up different subjects. To Bobbie it appeared like detective work. She enjoyed watching him, as it was somehow soothing and reassuring: a man with purpose and intelligence diligently and methodically carrying out his duty. He had a look of intense concentration about him. She’d made him six cups of tea so far, but three had gone un-drunk and cold, so caught up was he in his work. She was just wondering how long he’d continue kneeling there, when the phone rang.

  She went into the front room and answered it. But before she could even ask who it was, Vince had grabbed the phone from her.

  ‘Terence?’

  CHAPTER 18

  FRESH HELL

  The taxi dropped Vince off at the entrance to Shoreham harbour. Waiting for him in the car park was Terence, leaning up against the Triumph Herald. The first thing Terence did when he saw Vince was apologize – he’d creased the front bumper while getting out of a parking space. Vince gave the damage a quick once-over. Nothing major or really to worry about, especially when it was a company car.

  ‘Where’s Vogel?’ he asked.

  ‘He went into a warehouse over by pier three.’

  As they walked towards the pier, Terence filled him in. Vogel had shut up his shop and left in a hurry at around 4.30, walked around to East Street and got in his car, a brown and beige Bentley, then drove straight to the harbour.

  They reached the warehouses, three of them terraced together, each was as big as an aeroplane hangar, with a corrugated sheet-metal front painted green. They were windowless apart from the warehouse in the centre, which had a small round window, almost like a porthole, set in the top of the facade. Terence pointed this middle one out as the warehouse Vogel had entered. His Bentley was parked outside. A sign over the door, in flaking black paint, bore the legend: Tartarus Storage Ltd.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Terence.

  Vince noted that Terence’s voice sounded a little smudged. He sniffed the air and turned towards him. ‘Have you been drinking?’ Terence looked guilty, and if not pie-eyed, certainly red-eyed. Vince shook his head at his own negligence. ‘My fault. I shouldn’t have left a writer alone in a pub.’ He then turned his attention to the warehouse and said, ‘We do what all good coppers do, and what accounts for ninety per cent of our work. We wait.’

  They strolled back to the car, got inside and waited. In the distance, a freight ship was docking. Terence, emboldened by booze, wanted Vince to tell him some more about the case.

  Vince figured he owed Terence that much and he was beginning to trust him, so he told him about Ray Dryden at Interpol and the possible Corsican connection. Terence, his mind fired, didn’t take long to put the heroin connection together. Vince didn’t verify or deny this. Terence also laid out how easy it would be for Jack to come in and out of the country – being a professional smuggler – and pointed out that Shoreham airport was just up the road, with private planes taking off all the time.

  Terence wanted to scribble it all down in his pad, but Vince told him that right now it was all up in the air, up for grabs and, most importantly, off the record. But he promised that, if the story broke, Terence would be the one to break it. It would be a story Duncan Webb at the People would give his eye-teeth for.

  It was an hour before Vogel emerged from the warehouse. He then walked around to the docking area where a ship was being unloaded.

  ‘Terence, you wait here,’ said Vince, getting out of the car.

  ‘Why can’t I come?’ asked Terence, in a disgruntled tone.

  Vince looked around at the cub reporter. It was the first time he’d seen him looking anything but receptive, excited or awed. Terence, vexed, continued, ‘I mean, you know, I’ve been doing a lot of waiting … sitting around. You didn’t let me go to the Brunswick Sporting Club, and I was the one who told you about it. Gave you the lead, as it were.’

  Vince scrutinized the young hack. Was this his first stab at defiance, or simply the drink talking? Terence’s brow was creased and he was wearing a clown’s frown, obviously more petulance than anger. Vince gave him an encouraging smile. ‘What did I say earlier? Waiting is ninety per cent of the work. You’re doing a stellar job, but just think about it. If I’m seen palling around with the press, no one will ever tell me anything. You’re not supposed to be here, Terence. You’re my back-up man, so don’t underestimate that role.’

  Terence deliberated for a good ten seconds, then nodded in recognition of his role.

  Vince trowelled it on. ‘You’re my secret weapon, Terence. You’re more of a secret agent than a copper.’

  ‘Vince, I’m not a kid. Or an idiot.’

  Vince opened the door and stepped out of the car.

  A team of stevedores was securing the main container ready to be fitted on to a haulage lorry for the short distance to the warehouse, to be unloaded. The whole procedure should have taken about an hour – until Vince decide to intervene.

  ‘Mr Vogel!’ he called out.

  Vogel looked around and saw him approaching. His face couldn’t hide his displeasure at seeing the detective. ‘I take it this is no coincidence.’

  Vince was now standing alongside Max Vogel and one of the tough-looking stevedores. ‘I can’t lie. What’s in the container?’

  ‘Who are youse, pal?’ barked the stevedore in a broad Glasgow accent, by way of the Gorbals. The Scots seadog wore a string vest that showed off his tattooed torso and arms, with muscle lashed around him like knotted rope. He’d obviously been eating his spinach.

  Vince reached into his pocket and badged him.

  Popeye looked at the badge. ‘Scotland Yard? Then you got no authority here. I’ve got my own badge, pal. Any problems, you call me first.’

  Vogel chipped in, ‘Mr Charmers is right, it’s none of your business. And you have no authority here.’

  On hearing the surname, Vince eyed the scowling Charmers. Never was a name more ill-fitting. He was all hard edges; with his jutting jaw and hook-nose he looked like a giant’s bottle opener. His body was lavishly decorated with tattoos featuring flamenco dancers and hula-hula girls that gyrated with lascivious intent at each flex of a pec or a biceps. As pretty as they were, they weren’t as eye-catching as the vicious-looking cargo hook that was looped into his belt.

  Knowing he couldn’t out-scowl this stevedore, Vince gave him a smile and turned his attention back to Vogel. ‘It’s a simple question. What’s in the container?’

  ‘I do a lot of business exporting to America, Detective Treadwell,’ replied Vogel. ‘The Americans are very keen on antique furniture, no matter what the quality.’

  ‘May I?’ asked Vince, pointing at the manifest in Charmers’ hand.

  Vogel gave a reluctant nod to Charmers to give it up. Matching Vogel’s reluctance, the man did so.

  Vince checked it out. ‘This cargo’s from France. Calais.’

  ‘I shall pick off the best pieces, then the rest will end up in America.’

  ‘French furniture?’

  ‘Yes, of varying quality,’ said Vogel, trying to muffle this admission with an embarrassed cough.

  ‘Let’s crack one open. I’d like to see.’

  ‘You imagine Mr Regent is hiding inside?’ protested Vogel, pointing at the container still on the ship.

  ‘I leave nothing up to the imagination, Mr Vogel. Unload it and open it, or I’ll have the whole lot impounded and coppers taking it apart stick by stick.’

  Vogel, furious, speechless, gave Charmers the nod.

  ‘Need any help?’ came the panting voice jogging up behind them.

  Vince fixed the young hack with a baleful stare and, through gritted teeth, answered Vogel’s questioning look with a pissed-off, ‘He’s with me.’

  Vogel gave Terence the once-over, and once was all it took for him to conclude: ‘He doesn’t look like a p
oliceman.’

  Vince saw there no disputing that point. ‘No, he doesn’t much.’

  The girl felt sad. She thought that Vaughn would be meeting her at the station. He’d promised her a taxi ride home. She hadn’t packed much in her suitcase, since she’d only been away for a week. But her mother was worried that she wasn’t eating properly – she looked so thin and drawn – and had insisted she take some food with her. Mother had packed her case with pots of jam, tins of corned beef, Spam and other victuals. She’d had to haul the heavy case on and off a bus, then dragged it down their street. She felt sad when she entered the basement, stood amid the grime that had blown in off the street and settled. She made an effort to sweep it daily, but it was a losing battle since the basement just seemed to attract debris. And now, as she entered the dank gloom of the flat, she felt like crying. There’s no place like home, and this crepuscular flophouse was never like a home. She’d done her best to pretty the place up since she’d moved in a month ago, but all her hard work had been undone in the six days she’d gone away. It was a mess.

  She was about to unpack when she heard a knock on the door. She thought about how she’d react, knowing she certainly wouldn’t fall into Vaughn’s arms as if happy to see him. She didn’t want to seem too needy, even though she knew she was. The truth was, she felt at ease with Vaughn, because for the first time she felt equal to someone. When they were alone together, they could pretend – pretend everything was just so. And whenever they were on the stuff, they felt better. She was reluctant to try it at first, since one heard such terrible things. But Vaughn had told her it would be OK if they only smoked it. And he was right, it made her feel warm, it made her feel whole, it made her forget. She’d heard such terrible stories about it, but surely she wasn’t addicted to it. True, she had been a little testy with her mother, ill at ease, so she did wonder if she’d come back to Brighton early so she could take some more. But it wasn’t a habit; no, she was sure of that. And anyway, she and Vaughn were going to leave Brighton soon. She wanted them to make a fresh start, maybe start a family. But right now it was just a bit of fun over the summer. They first took it after the pills Vaughn had got hold of for them to go out dancing with. It was the first time she’d been out dancing with boys and girls of her own age. The pills gave her energy, brought her out of herself, made her feel confident, made her feel normal. She had danced all night. It was the first time she had let her hair down, literally, since she became aware that she was different, since she was a child and had first been stared at in the classroom. Vaughn had given her this happiness, given her this magic. She ran to the door, knowing she would fall into his arms. She knew she wanted to feel warm again. She knew she wanted more …

  She opened the door. It was all wrong. A figure filled the door frame, blocking out what little sunlight did manage to penetrate the basement. Where Vaughn’s apologetic little eyes should have been, there was a black expanse. A blood-red ruby stickpin was stuck in the black tie. She followed the tie up to the knot and, with her head leaning back at full tilt, she looked up to see the smiling, scarred face of Henry Pierce.

  ‘Hello, my dear.’

  ‘I told you to wait in the car!’ Vince growled, his finger prodding firmly into Terence’s chest; so firmly that Terence was forced against the wall. They had just entered the container, after standing in silence for about twenty minutes, while waiting for it to be unloaded on to the dock. Terence had tried to talk to Vince, tried to apologize, but Vince was having none of it and merely told him to shut up. It wasn’t that Terence had disobeyed an order, for he was a civilian, and insubordination was a trait that Vince possessed enough of to forgive in others; it was just that, by sticking his face up alongside Vince’s, he’d now put himself in the firing line.

  Terence had blown his own cover and, in some ways, his usefulness, and Vince was forced to lie for him. With a crowbar in hand, Vince started opening the wooden crates to check the contents. Terence helped out, and they worked in silence.

  Half an hour later, straw and newspaper packing was strewn all over the floor of the container. They’d checked every box, to find it was just what Vogel had said it was – French furniture. Flashy stuff: gilt-framed mirrors, stripy silk-upholstered white-wood salon chairs, heavy black-lacquered oriental-influenced bureaus, bow-fronted chests of drawers, bookcases and screens. The only thing of real interest was the fact that Vince recognized some of the pieces from Bobbie’s apartment. Which again connected Vogel with Jack. But it was a tenuous link; Vogel dealt in furniture. Jack owned some of it – big deal, so what? Vince had meanwhile checked every stick of furniture, looking in every drawer of every bureau, desk and chest of drawers. Anywhere you could conceal contraband heroin, and he’d come up with a big fat nothing.

  The last box contained ceramic figurines with the cross-sword Meissen mark on the base. There were about a dozen of them, worth on their own a small fortune. Especially if they contained pure heroin. Vince figured these were definitely Vogel’s fakes. And if they weren’t, he was in trouble. But it was worth the risk. He removed all the straw packing from the box, and threw it to the ground. Then he started rooting around among the broken figurines inside it.

  ‘Er … why did you do that, Vince?’

  ‘Because Vogel’s lying. He told me most of this stuff was fake – or reproduction, as he put it. But he’s selling it as the real McCoy, which is strictly illegal. That part I believe.’ Vince bent down closer to inspect the damage. ‘So why would you offer up the truth about an illegal venture to a copper?’ Terence shook his head. ‘To cover up the real lie. Vogel’s throwing us a herring, and it’s as red as …’ Vince stuck his finger in his mouth, having cut himself on a shard of broken porcelain ‘… red as blood.’ He stood up, looking at his handiwork, while stemming the blood from his finger with his tongue.

  ‘What fresh hell is this!’

  Vince and Terence looked up from the box of broken figurines to see Max Vogel standing at the entrance of the walk-in container. His fat hands were then in his mouth, up to the knuckles, his eyes bulging. He looked as if he was about to start eating himself. The container felt as though it was being hit by a small earthquake as he dropped to his knees.

  Vince turned to Terence and, in a voice deader than the deadest of deadpans, said, ‘Whoopsy-daisy, looks like they were real.’

  Vince parked his car at the bottom of Waterloo Street, and made his way to Vaughn’s flat. Once Max Vogel had struggled up off the floor of the container, and dried his tears, then ceased his threats to sue Vince and Scotland Yard for every penny they possessed, he told Vince that Machin was on the phone and wanted to talk with him urgently.

  So there was Vince, stepping under the police tape, heading down the stairs and into the gloom of his brother’s basement flop. Which was now a crime scene.

  And there she was. The girl. On the floor. Dead. A depressed, bent syringe hanging out of her arm. Blood oozing from her nose, foam around her mouth. Eyes wide open in horror. It was the same MO as the other dead junkies. Six in all, now. The only thing really marking her out as different was the blemish she’d tried to cover up all her adult life with a Veronica Lake peekaboo hairstyle. The birthmark on her face.

  ‘Welcome to shit street, clean face.’ Machin emerged from the kitchen into the living room, Ginge, as ever, following a few paces behind him. Machin wore a malicious expression: the gloves were off now between them. It was war, open hostilities.

  That didn’t bother Vince; he’d been expecting it.

  ‘I thought you should see this, son, before you go back to where you fucking belong.’

  Vince, eyes on the girl, asked, ‘Is this Vaughn’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Max Vogel called me. He said you were harassing him. Searching a cargo of his without a warrant. What the fuck’s all that about? Is that the way you do things in the Met? ’Course, you’ve got form for that, sticking your nose into places you shouldn’t. I reckon you’ve gone rogue on us, Treadwell. What d�
�you reckon, Ginge – reckon he’s gone rogue on us?’

  Ginge, without much enthusiasm, replied, ‘Guv.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Vince. ‘Is this Vaughn’s girl?’

  Machin looked down at the girl, as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Who knows, poor cow. If she is, it makes sense. Not much to look at, either. A right face-ache.’

  Machin went back into the kitchen and returned with a paper bag. He emptied the contents on to a side table. The same gear that had killed the others. Wrapped in cellophane, it was about the size of a big fist. A big fat fist that packed a killer blow.

  ‘We found this behind there.’ Machin pointed to an old brown sideboard. ‘We got an anonymous tip that your brother’s the dealer. He’s the one putting it out on the streets. He’s responsible for the deaths of six people.’

  Vince, with his eyes still on the girl, gave Machin a swift nod. He wasn’t agreeing with him; the nod was just a receipt for the goods, the assessment. Which Machin had delivered as if it was fact. Vince wasn’t buying it. Not yet, anyway. Not because Vaughn was his brother, but just because good coppers don’t do that. Such supposition and speculation had not yet turned into stone-cold facts – no matter how bad it looked.

  Vince bent down to take a closer look at the body, and began some real detective work. She was wearing a knitted jacket and matching skirt. Cheap but giving her a smart appearance. Her arm with the syringe in it had the jacket sleeve carefully rolled up. On closer inspection, it wasn’t. It was pulled up unevenly, hurriedly and forcefully. There was a small tear at the seam which looked fresh from where the sleeve had been yanked up. He looked at her shoes: black, small heel, buckle, again formal. It all looked wrong, her being in her Sunday best. She looked like a secretary in an insurance company or fresh out the typing pool. If she was going to do junk, she wouldn’t be dressed so formally. She’d have got herself nice and comfortable for the big nod. At least have kicked off her shoes, even taking into account the filthy carpet. And, most important, the bared arm was clean, baby smooth. No track marks. No history of sticking needles in herself. The suitcase in the room revealed that she’d just got back from somewhere, or was about to go somewhere. The contents of the case would tell them, through being fresh or worn clothes. But Vince doubted he would get a chance to check the contents.