‘Not really. It’s a done deal, signed, sealed and delivered.’ She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.
‘Do you always get what you want?’
‘Pretty much, these days. So you best be careful, because 1964 is a leap year. I could ask you to marry me.’
‘Pick your moment and your scenery carefully. We could be anywhere we want to be by next week.’
They walked on until they reached the end of the pier. There they leaned over the rail and looked down at the black sea breaking around the barnacled iron girders, the spume leaping up to greet them.
‘Legend has it there’s a monster living down there, a thirty-foot Moray eel,’ said Vince, staring into the black swell. He considered further this childhood exaggeration, then gathered up some spit in his mouth and let a slow gob fall into the sea below.
‘Vincent!’ She dug an elbow into his arm.
He gave her a mischievous grin. ‘Everyone does it.’
‘If you’re ten years old.’
Bobbie leaned forward over the railing and spat, too. They stood spitting into the sea, watching those tiny flecks of themselves get swallowed up, until the clouds that had been gathering and darkening since they had stepped on to the pier burst open, and the gods spat back down on them.
They ran for cover.
CHAPTER 27
PIERS, QUEERS AND RACKETEERS
Vince stood before a large black oriental-style wardrobe that took up almost one entire side of the room. It was inlaid with silver wire and mother-of-pearl depicting exotic birds and insects. It was definitely top quality, not the knock-off stuff that Vogel was importing and peddling. Inside was a selection of Jack Regent’s suits, shirts and ties. Like the wardrobe that contained them, the clothes were all top quality.
‘Take your pick. You’re about his size,’ said Bobbie, who was standing behind him.
Vince’s suit was a mess, crumpled, creased and carrying the sweat and strain of a long night.
‘I’ll go and get ready,’ she said, leaving Vince to make a choice.
Vince eyed the suits lined up. He ran the back of his hand along their sleeves, making them ripple like keys on a piano. Shelves of laundered shirts, displayed like candy in a sweetshop, every colour available, stripes, check, different collar-and-cuff combinations; all hand-made Egyptian cotton from Jermyn Street. The suits were bespoke, run up by a tailor in Hong Kong: cashmere, fine wool, summer suits in linen and silk blend. Midnight-blue, Prince of Wales check, pin-stripe and chalk-stripe, shimmering sharkskin. Whatever else Vince thought about Jack, his taste was impeccable. And it all fitted him.
An hour later and Bobbie was ready. She’d soaked herself in a hot bath, got dressed again and painted her face and nails.
Vince had selected a midnight-blue suit, a powder-blue shirt, and a slim black knitted tie with subtle thin silver stripes woven through it. The shirt was monogrammed, and so was the handkerchief for his top pocket. Vince thought about the thief, Murray the Head, not wanting his name displayed on everything. Jack was different, however; he put his mark on the things he owned. Vince thought it strange at first that there were no shoes anywhere in the room, then he remembered Jack’s disfigurement – the club foot. But even if the shoe did fit, so to speak, whilst he had no great compunction about wearing Jack’s clothes, there was something about walking around in another man’s shoes that just didn’t feel right.
‘You look great.’
Vince turned around to see Bobbie, who was wearing that turquoise silk dress, her mother’s dress, with the brooch of the mythical bird. Vince was surprised to find her wearing it – knowing that there was a room in the apartment solely devoted to storing her clothes. It was probably crammed with expensive outfits.
‘So do you.’
Three hours later they sat in a Wimpy Bar and ate Knickerbocker Glories. It had been a meal promised, and a date long overdue. Dressed to the nines, as they were, Vince had wanted to take her somewhere classy like Wheeler’s, Prompt Corner or the Metropole, but Bobbie had visited these places with Jack, always getting the best table even if someone was already sitting there, and had the stodgy, genuflecting waiters fawn over them with a startling servility that made Bobbie uneasy. She wanted the brightly lit Wimpy Bar with its vinyl-buttoned booths and Formica tables, and its wholesome American hamburgers, multistorey desserts with fan-shaped wafers and topped with chocolate and strawberry sauces, refreshing milkshakes served in tall glasses with a dirty joke waiting for you when you reached the end – for the bottom of the glass was stamped ‘Duralex’, and that sounded like a French letter.
As for the film, Vince had wanted to see From Russia With Love, but it was sold out. Bobbie wanted to see Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow with Sophia Loren and subtitles, but Vince argued that if he wanted to read, he’d go to the library. A Shot in the Dark, a comedy with Peter Sellers about a bumbling detective, was also playing, but Vince didn’t fancy that, and Zulu with Stanley Baker and some new young actor. Bobbie had met Stanley Baker last year in the Astor Club in London, where he’d bought her and Jack a bottle of champagne, and told her this young blond actor was going to be big; meanwhile she’d forgotten his name. It was all enough to put Vince off that film, too. Bobbie thought Laurence Harvey was a dish, and wanted to see Of Human Bondage; but he was acting his socks off playing a man with a club foot, so that was a no-no. They settled on The Fall of the Roman Empire. It seemed to play out in real time, too, for by the time Rome eventually fell, Vince had himself fallen asleep.
So they left it early and went to a pub that Bobbie liked, by the Theatre Royal, knowing none of Jack’s crowd would be there. In the upstairs, not so public, bar, the crowd was made up of queers and dykes and artist types. A black drag queen with the best legs Vince had ever seen was singing Eartha Kitt. ‘She’ invited Bobbie up to sing, and Bobbie joined him in a duet. They got chatting to a couple of theatrical types named Hugh and Dennis. They said Vince and Bobbie looked like a couple of film stars. When pushed, Vince had to admit he was a copper. Hugh and Dennis took that in their stride, and told him Brighton was full of ‘Piers, queers and racketeers’. Vince bought them a drink.
As soon as Bobbie had twirled the key in the lock and they entered the flat, the phone started to ring. They looked at each other, and just let it ring. Neither wanted to answer it. It had broken the spell of their first date, during which time they had avoided all talk of the intrigue, deception and uncertainty that was uncontrollably spinning around them. They had talked about everything else a young couple might talk about on a first date. For, even though they had already been through so much, and been forced to reveal themselves so completely, they needed to catch up on the normal stuff. The frivolous stuff. Favourite books, films, music, first kisses, funny stories. There was an element of play-acting about it, mixing in with all the other dates waiting in line at the cinema; walking arm in arm along the street; being complimented by Hugh and Dennis; sitting in a booth at the Wimpy Bar. As with most young couples in love, there was a conceit about them. They knew they looked good together. Their bodies seemed to fit effortlessly, like missing pieces in a jigsaw puzzle finally put together and showing all the world what a dazzling picture it made. From an outsider’s point of view, they looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
And from the point of view of the man inside the black car who had followed them from destination to destination, and finally back to Adelaide Crescent, it looked just the same: not a care in the world …
The phone kept on ringing relentlessly, and seemingly getting louder and louder like an alarm. It demanded to be picked up, wouldn’t take no for an answer. They both knew that once the call was answered, their ‘date’ was over.
Bobbie picked up the receiver, just to stop the noise, but left it hovering over its cradle. She looked up at Vince for guidance. He gave her the nod, and she put the phone to her ear and said, ‘Hello …’
The caller refused to give his name, but Bobbie knew who it
was. And so did Vince, by the look of contempt that crossed her face. He darted over to the phone and grabbed the receiver out of her hand.
‘Vaughn!’
CHAPTER 28
BLIND MAN’S BUFF
Vince drove to the address that Vaughn had given him, a good half hour’s drive east of Brighton, along the coast. He followed his brother’s directions, but he lost precious time, driving in the dark, while trying to find the unmarked, narrow country lane that led to a dirt road that accessed the house. The road wasn’t private, there being no gate, but the house was all there was at the end of it. Bumpy, with jagged flinty stones, the path was not lit up – puncture alley. The flinty road fizzled out and opened into grassland. And there was the house itself, standing almost at the edge of the cliff.
It was a small bungalow, no more than a chalet really, and at first sight it looked like a small farmhouse with a weatherboard facade. Seeing as there was nothing to farm here on the edge of a cliff, Vince took it as a holiday home or a little weekend bolt-hole. It sat all alone, no cars parked outside, and no lights inside to indicate that anyone was home.
Vince killed the engine and stepped out of the car. He heard the surf breaking, crashing on the rocks below the cliff, then drawing back out again, to repeat itself like some mighty perpetual drum roll. Before knocking on the door, he checked around the back and saw some large sliding glass doors. He decided that in daylight it might be worth while having a place with such a dramatic sea view. But its isolation made him nervous, thus working in reverse of its intention: it seemed all too obvious a place to hide out in. It almost warranted a huge neon sign proclaiming: Hide-Out! The glass doors were locked, and he couldn’t see anyone inside, so he went back around the front and softly knocked on the door.
‘Vince?’ came Vaughn’s hushed voice from behind the door.
‘Yeah. Open up.’
The door opened and there stood Vaughn. He led Vince through to the living room. It looked as if it hadn’t seen a lot of living in. Vaughn lit a couple of candles, not for ambience but because the light bulbs were blown. Otherwise the room was more homely than the outside suggested. An armchair and a small covered settee; a wooden rocker sitting in the corner of the room; a small television set in the other corner; a side table with an old black 1940s telephone resting on it; and a small wooden coffee table. On the last were some magazines: a couple of Reader’s Digests, a Titbits and a National Geographic. The kind of reading material you’d find in a dentist’s waiting room. And that’s exactly what it felt like – a place for waiting for something potentially unpleasant.
‘Sit down,’ said Vaughn, gesturing to the settee.
Vince sat down. Vaughn took the rocking chair in the corner, giving him a view of the room, the front door and the front windows. He sat perfectly still in it, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.
‘Took a while to find,’ remarked Vince.
‘Directions no good?’
‘They were fine. It’s just the type of place that takes a while to find.’
Vaughn nodded, as if pleased with himself.
‘How did you find it, Vaughn?’
‘It’s a mate’s.’
‘A mate’s?’ Vince echoed, looking around the place, unconvinced. There wasn’t much to it, but what there was didn’t strike him as it might belong to the kind of company Vaughn normally kept. The magazines, the wooden mantel clock, the crocheted throw draped over the settee, the wooden rocking chair, the Home Sweet Home rug on the well-swept wooden floor, the armchair with an embroidered cushion. ‘Can you be more specific?’ Vince asked.
‘You don’t know him.’
Vince gave a nod towards the cushion on the armchair and said, ‘No, but I’m admiring his needlework.’
‘It’s his mum’s place.’
‘OK, you want to tell me about it?’
‘What’s to tell? The bogies are looking for me.’
‘That heroin, where did you get it from?’
‘I didn’t! It’s not me!’ snapped Vaughn, setting in motion the rocking chair.
‘I saw it, Vaughn – and your girl, Wendy.’
Vaughn cast his eyes downwards on hearing her name. Vince could see the pain of her loss was genuine. ‘I’m sorry about her, Vaughn. But that’s what happens when you mess with that stuff.’
Vaughn’s eyes shot up urgently. ‘I had nothing to do with that, I swear to God, I got rid of …’ His unthinking voice trailed off.
‘You got rid of the heroin?’
Vaughn, knowing he’d already said enough, gave a guarded nod.
‘Then what was a stash of it doing in your flat?’
‘What stash?’
Vince saw that his brother was genuinely surprised by this. ‘Machin found some of the junk stashed behind a cupboard in your flat. It’s bad junk that’s been doing the rounds and killing people.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Why would I lie?’ asked Vince, impatient and angry. ‘I’m here to help, you idiot!’
At that point, Vaughn pulled out the gun. It wasn’t like Bobbie’s old cannon but a sleek and lethal German 9mm Parabellum, perfect for up-close work.
‘Easy, Vaughn, take it easy.’
‘You take it easy, copper!’
Vince gave three meditative nods at this new development.
‘Who’s the idiot now?’ Vaughn sneered.
‘I guess that’ll be me.’ Vince dead-panned it. ‘Did you know it was bad junk, when you were selling it?’
‘What d’you take me for?’ Vince didn’t answer. ‘I didn’t find out till I read about it in the paper. I knew it was strong stuff, needed cutting, but not that bad.’
‘If you really got rid of it, Vaughn, how come Wendy got hold of it?’
‘Because she was a lying bitch!’ exclaimed Vaughn, nodding his head now as if he was hammering in nails with it. ‘She must have stolen some off me before I could unload it. She deserved what she got.’
‘You believe that?’
‘’Course, I do!’ he snapped, trying to sound as resolute as his shaky voice would allow. ‘It ain’t my fault. She lied to me! You can’t trust junkies!’
‘And who turned her into one?’
‘She knew what she was doing … She lied, she stole the junk off me, she got what she deserved.’
‘That’s the company line, is it?’
‘What company?’
Vince sighed, forgetting just what a dispiriting dumbshow talking to his brother could be. ‘The company you’re keeping, Vaughn. Machin found about half a pound of heroin. I was there and he showed it to me. I don’t know how much you unloaded, but you’d have known if you were that short, wouldn’t you say?’ Vaughn clearly would have known, but he didn’t say. Vince sat up and leaned in closer to the candlelight, to get a good look at his brother and make things as clear as possible.
‘You’ve been set up, Vaughn. Little Wendy didn’t steal anything off you. She didn’t inject herself with the heroin either. She was dosed, given a hot shot. The heroin was stashed behind a cupboard, which is one of the first places coppers would look. Also they were working off a tip. The person who stashed it there was the one who dosed her. Any ideas who that might be?’ Not giving Vaughn time to think or answer, he continued, ‘Then, let me tell you, it was whoever put you up to this – sticking a gun on me and getting me out the way.’
Vaughn shook his head. ‘Not true!’
Vince’s brow creased in disdain. ‘You know it’s true, because it hurts, because it shows you for what you are. Deep down, you know poor little Wendy didn’t steal that heroin. She didn’t have it in her. That wasn’t what she was about. Because she was OK – better than that, she was decent. A girl that got a tough break in life, born with that stain on her face. But little Wendy was an all-right kid. She deserved better. She deserved better than you.’ Vaughn held the gun but it was Vince who was firing the bullets. ‘But you’re taking the easy way out, Vaughn. You’re rewriting her sad little
history to suit your own purposes. You want to believe she stole it because you’re too weak to punish the man that did it to her.’
Vaughn shook his head vigorously in denial, but it just looked as if he was trying to shake the truth out of his ears.
‘What was the easy way out, Vaughn? What deal did you make? Kill me and you get off the hook?’
‘What if it was? I owe you nothing!’
‘Maybe not, but you owe the girl. You owe Wendy – and so do I. Because she got killed in order for them to get at me. Because she was with you. You’re being used, Vaughn, and it stinks. It stinks of Henry Pierce. What did he offer you?’
Vaughn’s pallid, pockmarked skin had begun blotching and reddening up, tears brimming in his eyes. He cried out, ‘More than you could, copper!’
Vaughn pulled back the hammer.
Death at his own brother’s hand? It had a twist to it.
‘Not you, Vaughn. Not you.’
Vince had a hunch he would have to make his move before a car, Henry Pierce’s black Cadillac, drove down that flinty dirt lane and parked outside. Because by that time it would be too late …
CHAPTER 29
THE BLUE ORCHID
Vince had dropped Bobbie off at the Blue Orchid. She didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to leave the flat. There was still a large part of her that was in denial, holding on to the idea that no harm would come to her because of Jack. Vince understood all too well how that kind of patronage from a powerful man like Jack could become addictive, and hard to break free of. But he also knew that nothing stays the same in this game, and the world was littered with corpses of those who had held on to a delusional and deadly belief that it could. But Vince had insisted. He’d originally wanted her to go somewhere public, like to the pictures where they were showing a double bill. But she had refused, and settled on going to the club, as there she would at least know some people. He dropped her off at the bottom of Oriental Place and promised her that, as soon as he was finished with Vaughn, he would call by and pick her up. He would only be a couple of hours, at the most.
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