Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  Either way, it all looked rushed and wrong. She’d been unwittingly caught out.

  Vince stood up and gave it a shot, already knowing he didn’t stand a chance. ‘I want to come to the morgue with you, to check her body for bruising and signs of a struggle.’

  Machin laughed incredulously. ‘Whhhhat!’ He swung around to Ginge, pulled a face to emphasize that he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Ginge, not twigging that he was part of a double act, or else just pricked by his conscience, didn’t join in with the incredulity; he merely shrugged and looked away.

  Machin’s face hardened. He stepped over the dead girl, stuck his face right into Vince’s. ‘You have to be fucking joking, Treadwell! This isn’t your case, this isn’t even your town any more. You were sent down here because you weren’t wanted up there. You were sent down here to chase shadows. And, by the sounds of it, you’ve fucked that up, too. We’re being billed for that broken crockery.’ He pointed at the girl. ‘This is real stuff, Treadwell. You’re not in Soho now, with your imaginary crimes. Driving everyone fuckin’ mad. Accusing good men of cover-ups. You’re out your coma now, and this is the real fuckin’ world. This is a real body, a real crime, real police business. And you’re not wanted. And if you go anywhere near your brother, try to warn him, try to get him out of town, or try to help him in any way, shape or form, we’ll know and we’ll throw the book, the shelves, the fuckin’ house at you!’

  Vince knew that Machin wanted him to take a pop at him, chin him, give him his best shot. Because it would add to his woes. Vinnie ‘clean face’ Treadwell, loose cannon, rogue Old Bill. And Vince was sorely tempted. So he closed his eyes and rode the torrent out. And Machin carried on, wave after wave of pure, driven vitriol. Vince could feel Machin’s breath on him: cigarettes, stale booze, fresh booze, salt and vinegar. It was making him feel sick.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ bellowed Machin, stepping back, his back heel treading on the dead girl’s hand. A sickening, wincing sound as a rigor-mortic finger snapped like a brittle twig.

  ‘Easy, guv!’ said Ginge, opening his mouth for the first time, before guiding his boss off the girl’s hand.

  ‘You fucking freak, Treadwell!’ shouted Machin, whipping out a white handkerchief from his top pocket and wiping Vince’s blood off his black brogues.

  Vince looked down at his hand, which was bleeding. He’d dug his forefinger nail into the cut thumb he’d received from Vogel’s smashed porcelain figures. He abruptly turned his back on them and walked out of there.

  As he left, Machin shouted out, ‘You’re finished, Treadwell! Fucking finished!’

  CHAPTER 19

  POOR COW

  Vince got into his car and drove to Adelaide Crescent. During the short drive, he tried to think about his brother. He tried to get worked up, sad, angry, heartbroken, whatever meaningful emotions you’re supposed to have when your brother is accused of being responsible for the deaths of six people. But he couldn’t. Vaughn was his brother, but in name only, it seemed. He had somehow slipped away from him. Vaughn’s fate now seemed sealed, the logical conclusion to his life. It had been on the cards for years that this scenario would finally play out: Vince would have to confront his brother as a copper.

  He parked up outside Bobbie’s place and killed the engine. Then he clenched his fist and smashed it down on the steering wheel. Something came loose, either a bone in his hand or something in the steering column, he didn’t care which. A new thought had struck him: how he had messed up and played right into their hands. It all felt like a set-up. Like he was being painted into a picture, by a greater hand at work, and he couldn’t see his place in it. He felt as if he was banging his head against a brick wall – or, in this case, his hand on a steering wheel.

  Vince glanced into the rear-view mirror just in time to catch sight of Bobbie walking up the street towards him. She was dressed formally, like the dead girl, but her outfit was the real thing. Expensively tailored Pierre Cardin, Yves St Laurent, the best that money could buy. Bobbie presented a stark contrast to the dead girl, one that divided the world up into its harsh component parts: the winners and the losers, the haves and the have-nots, the glamour pusses and the poor cows. The living and the dead.

  Bobbie wore large black sunglasses that seemed to cover half her face like a mask. Her stride was brisk and he watched as she walked past, the clip of her heel gathering pace. She was obviously in a hurry. Her head down, she looked distracted as she ghosted past, so didn’t spot him sitting in the car. Vince got out and called to her. She glanced around at him, unsmiling, then carried on walking.

  Vince loped along the street to catch up with her. Even walking by her side, she still didn’t look at him. From what was available to him of her face, he could tell she wasn’t pleased to see him. Her lips were pursed and angry.

  He grabbed her arm and stopped her walking. ‘Tell me what’s wrong?’

  She grabbed her arm back and told him, ‘Your brother. That’s what’s wrong!’

  ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘I got a phone call ten minutes ago. I’ve been asked to go to the morgue to identify Wendy.’

  Vince didn’t recognize the name but knew it was the dead girl. ‘I’ve just seen her.’

  ‘They want me to identify her before they tell her mother what’s happened.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘They found my number in her address book. It was circled,’ said Bobbie, her voice still with a lacerating edge. ‘She didn’t have many friends, and it seems my number took pride of place. I’d told her she could call me if she needed help, if she needed a friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bobbie.’

  ‘I’m sorry for you, too. For having a brother like …’ her voice trailed off. She felt uneasy that the hatred she now felt for the man who had killed the girl could so easily transfer to his brother. ‘Well, you can’t pick your family, can you?’ she rationalized. ‘A bad deal all round, wouldn’t you say?’

  Vince agreed, but didn’t say anything. Then he was hit by an idea. ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘What?’ Bobbie was in no mood to be doing favours for any man.

  ‘I want you to check if there’s any bruising on her arms, or anywhere else on her body.’ Bobbie looked confused. ‘She’ll be lying on a gurney, with a sheet over her body.’ She searched his face for any sign that he was joking. Realizing it was no joke, she shook her head in disbelief. ‘Vince, how am I supposed to do that? Don’t they have rules for this kind of thing?’

  ‘I’d go myself but, for obvious reasons, they don’t want me anywhere near this new case. Or near Brighton for that matter. Machin’s made it very clear that I’m not welcome.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Signs that she had the drug forced on her.’

  ‘If you’re trying to help your brother get away, then you’ll rot in hell with him.’

  Vince recoiled at the strong words that packed a vicious punch. He took a deep breath. ‘Me and Vaughn aren’t close, never were. To be honest, I think he hates me. And I think he’s been heading for a long stretch all his life. It was bound to catch up with him. If he’s guilty, then so be it. I hope he gets what’s coming to him. But I don’t think she injected that heroin herself. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever injected heroin in her life. And I don’t think Vaughn did it either. And the reason I think he wouldn’t is because he hasn’t got it in him. And, to be more prosaic, he’s never had a girlfriend before, not a real one, so killing the one girl he could find wouldn’t be an option.’

  Vince couldn’t see Bobbie’s eyes, but her jaw was set tight, defiant, fixed. Her lips were thinly drawn as her voice jabbed at him again. ‘I’m going to have to stand alongside her poor old widowed mother. Her daughter was all she had. And everyone else seems to agree she wasn’t much, but I liked her. Think about that too, whilst you’re at it.’

  Vince, on the ropes, just nodded. He knew he only had a stock answer for her, but she deserved more.

>   ‘I’ll do what you want,’ she said in a detached tone. ‘Marks on her arms, you say?’

  ‘Bruising anywhere.’

  Bobbie gave him a curt nod and walked off.

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  She carried on walking.

  ‘Bobbie, I’m sorry.’

  She stopped and turned around. ‘Her name was Wendy … Wendy Hamilton. I think it’s a nice name. Don’t you?’

  Yes, it was a nice name, he thought. It had a dignity about it. A dignity denied her in death.

  ‘She deserved better, Vincent.’

  Vince watched as she disappeared around the corner, then he uttered, ‘The dead ones usually do.’

  Vince stood in the phone box at the top of Palmeira Square. He dialled the operator, asking to be put through to Ray Dryden. In the time it took, Vince thought about his brother Vaughn. If he had a duty to, would he send his own flesh and blood to jail for the rest of his life, or worse? He didn’t know, but he knew he now had to get to him before Machin did, to find out the truth. But what if the truth wasn’t what he wanted to hear?

  ‘Putting you through now, caller.’

  Saved by the bell. The call clicked into place and broke off his dilemma.

  ‘Ray Dryden.’

  ‘Ray, it’s me, Vince.’

  ‘Hey, Vinnie boy, how’s it going?’

  ‘It’s been better.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Any news on Eddie Tobin?’

  ‘I called your office, the number you gave me, got put through to a DC Marks. He said you’d gone back to London.’

  That made sense, as DC Marks was Ginge. ‘Forget that. Eddie Tobin?’

  ‘He’s in your neck of the woods.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I got his home number off Mickey Brice. You know him?’

  ‘Brice of Vice, as the poem goes.’

  ‘That’s the fella. Brice and Tobin worked on the Messina brothers’ case. I know his son, who works in admin at West End Central. He put me in touch. I told Brice that an ex-copper I know wanted to get back in touch with him because he was having a golf weekend—’ Beep-beep-beep.

  The pips went. Vince poured the last of his change into the slot, to keep the call alive. ‘Make it quick, Ray, I’m on a meter here.’

  ‘OK, Brice said that Tobin had bought a bungalow in Bournemouth. Nice place, swimming pool, the works. Didn’t have the actual address, but he did have his number. I got his wife on the blower. Nice woman, very chatty – too chatty for Tobin’s tastes, I imagine. She said that Eddie couldn’t make it this weekend, as he was going down to Brighton on business. Even told me his hotel. The Grand.’

  ‘Did she say what business?’

  ‘No, she was too pissed off that he wasn’t taking her with him! He’s probably got a bird stashed away down there, or is taking one with him for a dirty weekend. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Yeah, lots of dirty weekends in this town. Lots of coincidences, too.’

  ‘Sounds like a pretty good one to me, Vince. This way you can bump into him, accidentally on purpose, without getting in trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, pretty good.’ Vince smiled to himself, then his voice dripped irony. ‘And God forbid I should get in trouble.’

  ‘What’s going on down there, Vince—’ Beep-beep-beep.

  Saved by the bell again. ‘I’ve gotta go, Ray. I’ll call you.’

  The phone went dead. Vince put the receiver back in its cradle, and backed out of the phone booth, with a righteous smile on his face.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE HEAD

  The blood-red sun was dying in the sky, fading, falling and bleeding into the sea. Vince reached into the glove compartment and took out his sunglasses. He also took his hat off the back seat and put it on, snapping down the brim to obscure as much of his face as possible. If he’d had a false beard, he would have stuck that on too. He really didn’t want to bump into Eddie Tobin in the lobby. He got out of the car, crossed the busy road, weaving through the traffic towards the hotel.

  The Grand Hotel sat on the seafront, between the Palace and West piers, and it was as grand as it got in Brighton. Its white facade shimmering in the sun, looking out across the English Channel and maybe wishing it was on the other side, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in any grand Mediterranean resort. As he approached the hotel, he thought this would have been a perfect gig for Terence, with his trusting face and nondescript demeanour, if only he hadn’t now blown his cover. After the debacle on the dock, Vince had dropped Terence off at a bus stop without saying another word. Terence wisely kept his mouth shut, but Vince thought he detected a tear as Terence stepped out of the car.

  Luckily, there was enough human traffic going in and out of the hotel for him to easily meld in. The lobby was busy: a wedding party, a bar-mitzvah and bank-holiday punters with enough money to stay at the best and enjoy caviar with their chips.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ said the girl behind the desk, wearing a fixed smile and too much make-up.

  Vince talked fast. ‘Hello to you. I’m here to meet a Mr Edward Tobin and I believe he’s staying in the hotel.’

  She looked at the register. ‘He’s not booked in yet, sir.’

  ‘Has he not? Mmm.’ Vince checked his watch with a troubled expression. ‘He’s late. I do hope he won’t miss our appointment. He’d be so disappointed. Tell me, I forget, what room is he booked in to?’

  ‘Penthouse suite.’

  Penthouse suite? Not at all Tobin’s style. And, at their prices, not within his pension plan either. ‘He should have been here an hour ago,’ said Vince looking flustered, while giving further examination to his watch.

  ‘When he arrives, shall I tell him you called, Mr …?’ asked the receptionist.

  ‘That would be fine. The penthouse suite, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir. What’s your name again, sir?’ she asked, picking up a pen to write it down.

  ‘Shamus Shallanfalander.’

  ‘Shal …? Sorry sir, I didn’t get that.’ She looked up again to find Vince was gone.

  ‘Swordfish.’

  ‘Swordfish?’ responded the voice. Even with only two syllables, four floors, and the intercom static between them, Vince could tell it was the Long Fellow, as he was buzzed into the Brunswick Sporting Club. Long George was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He wanted a word in private and looked concerned.

  ‘Boobalah!’

  ‘Long George, I need a favour.’

  Long George threw an avuncular arm around the young detective. ‘What’s all the tumult? I hear you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself. Treble Dutch Vogel?’

  ‘That’s the least of it. You heard about Vaughn?’

  A mixture of sadness and disgust assembled itself on the tall fellow’s face. ‘It’s a bad, bad business. That filth, that kaka-da-hoysen! I’ve always kept my mouth shut about your brother, out of respect for your mother. But he’s got two character traits that go hand in hand: he’s weak and he’s foolish. If he’s mixed up with that game, he deserves what he gets. There, I’ve said my piece!’

  ‘And I agree. But there’s big money in that game, Long George, so a lot of people get involved. A lot.’

  Long George looked away. ‘Much I know of such things!’

  ‘I know you don’t, but you know people who are involved. The gear that killed those three in Kemp Town and the others, it’s still out there, Long George. My feeling is there’s going to be a lot more of it still out there, too.’ Long George shook his head in disgust. His conscience pricked, nevertheless. Vince knew how to play him. ‘And who’s dying but kids? You’ve got daughters, grandchildren.’

  ‘They’d never touch that filth!’ Long George was full of indignant rage at such a thought. ‘And if they did, I’d cut their hands off!’

  ‘There’s big money in it, Long George. Bigger than in any other racket you care to mention. You think Jack Regent would pass that up?’


  Long George knew the answer. His big, magnified eyes looked sad and tired. He sat down on the stairs with a wearisome sigh, as if dizzy from a world that was moving a little too fast for him. Vince sat down next to him, whereupon Long George’s big eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious. Suddenly remembering that he was talking to a copper, and not to the kid who used to run bets for him at the races. ‘Where’s this leading? What do you want off me?’

  ‘Murray the Head.’

  Long George turned and put both of his big hands on Vince’s shoulders, as if he was going to shake some sense into him. ‘Murray? You fucking mashigina! He’d have nothing to do with this! He’s a good, honest, respectable thief!’ It was all said without an inch of irony.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Vince reassuringly, while recoiling from the tall man’s grip and wriggling himself free of those huge hands. ‘I want to ask the Head a favour. It’s on the up and up. I don’t know him, but if you introduced us, he’ll listen. Trust me, Long George.’