Cover Up

by Patricia Hall

  ‘Why do you want to know about Terry specially?’ he asked. ‘This is one of his sites – Macdonald-Jordan Construction – and it’ll be just my luck to get the blame for this mess, for some toerag scaffolder who didn’t do his job properly. So I don’t think I want one of the family in on the act.’

  ‘Macdonald-Jordan Construction,’ Kate said. ‘Yes, someone told me that. I’d been trying to find a company in Jordan’s name with no luck at all. I didn’t think from what people have told me about him he’d be as modest as that.’

  ‘He took over Macdonald-Jordan after the war, though I think the old boy is still alive somewhere,’ Frank said. ‘I’ve no idea why he never changed the name. Probably didn’t want to sound too Irish, especially back in the forties and fifties with the Unionists in charge. You know what it’s like. But there’s no doubt who the boss is now.’

  ‘I only want to know which of the buildings they were responsible for putting up. Mam must have told you what I’m doing.’ Frank hesitated for a moment and Kate wondered just how close he was to her mother in spite of her complaints.

  ‘Terry’s done well for himself,’ Frank said eventually. ‘He’s a canny operator.’

  ‘On which side of the law?’ Kate asked and her father looked at her sharply.

  ‘That’s asking,’ he said. ‘He’s never been an altar boy, hasn’t Terry. But I reckon he’s built up this business legit, as far as that goes in the building trade. Anyway, he’s never been caught. And now I need to talk to him. He won’t thank me if I don’t let him know what’s happened before the bizzies come knocking on his door.’

  ‘Why would the police be so involved?’ Kate asked. ‘I thought it was an accident.’

  ‘A fatal effing accident as far as I could see, la. The lad broke his neck, I reckon. There’ll be questions asked if I’m right, by the police among the rest.’ There was suddenly shouting from behind them, where the builders were congregated, close to the fence. Kate and her father turned to see the ambulance crew carrying their stretcher off the site – this time with a body completely covered by a blanket, which told its own story.

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ Frank muttered. ‘Come down to the pub with me, girl. You’ll only attract attention if you stay here and you don’t want to attract attention from the bizzies, you should know that. I can use the phone in the pub. Let the boss know what’s going on.’

  ‘Covering your back by the sound of it,’ Kate said sceptically, although she followed him through the dispersing crowd, which was waiting for the ambulance to pull away. It did not switch on its siren or blue lights which, Kate thought, said all that needed to say about the fate of its passenger. Leading her down the main road towards the city centre, Frank O’Donnell dodged into the first pub with an open door they came to and looked around for a public phone.

  ‘Get me a small whiskey,’ he said. ‘Jamesons if they’ve got it.’ He turned towards the pay phone before looking over his shoulder. ‘And something for yourself, la,’ he added by way of an afterthought. The pub had obviously only just opened and smelled unpleasantly, of disinfectant as much as anything else, but she guessed that Frank needed a drink more than she did so she braved the avid eyes of the barman, who was obviously not used to serving a woman and followed every move she made as she paid and picked up the glasses and carried them to one of the tables and waited for Frankie to finish his call. She could not hear what her father was muttering into the receiver, but the conversation was not long and he slammed the receiver down with some force when it ended. He joined her and picked up his drink and sank half of it in a mouthful.

  ‘They already had the feckin’ bizzies round at the office,’ he said. ‘I knew they would. They’ve closed off the site for their investigation. Could be closed for days. And the manager wants me to go to the office straight away so they can get my side of the story straight.’

  ‘Surely it was a straightforward accident if the scaffolding collapsed?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Nothing’s straightforward on a building site,’ her father said. ‘Terry Jordan takes feckin’ labourers straight off the Dublin boat as often as not. You’re never sure if they can even read or write. Feckin’ tinkers most of them. But Terry’s not there. He’s in London, apparently, looking for contracts, so they’re all running around like headless chickens. The trouble with a man like Terry is that he likes to take all the decisions himself, so when anything goes wrong no one knows what to do.’ He looked at his empty glass.

  ‘I’ll have another of these before I go and talk to the office.’ Kate sat and watched him as he downed his second whiskey more slowly.

  ‘How did you come to meet Terry Jordan?’ she asked. She knew the gist of it but not the detail, and wondered how close the two men had been back then. Her father smiled, which ironed the tension out of his face for a moment. But it did not last.

  ‘It was during the war,’ he said. ‘I knew of him. Most people down Scottie Road did. If you wanted something a bit special and had the money, Terry could usually find it for you.’

  ‘Black market?’ Kate asked.

  ‘A little bit of this and that off the boats or from the farms out in the country,’ her father said. ‘Or maybe he was nicking stuff. I wouldn’t know about that. I only really got to know him when he volunteered as a rescue man. They were the real heroes of the blitz and don’t let anyone tell you different. You can’t imagine the places we crawled into if there was anyone alive under the wreckage. Terry’s quite small, makes up for it in energy though, and he could wriggle into cracks in the rubble that hefty firemen couldn’t tackle. There was fire, smoke, gas escaping and electric sparks flying. It was a miracle he survived and a miracle we got people out alive.’

  ‘You said we?’ Kate said.

  ‘Well, only on and off,’ her father said. ‘I helped out now and then. But Terry was magic. There was nothing he wouldn’t do, especially around Scottie road. He got a medal, you know, for going into a shelter that got a direct hit and finding a way out for the people trapped inside. Or they offered him a medal, anyway. I never heard whether he went up to London to collect it or not.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Kate asked, surprised.

  ‘Oh well, he was a bit hardline back then. Old-style republican. Didn’t go much for British royalty and such.’ Frank O’Donnell glanced round the empty bar as if the walls might have ears.

  ‘I thought the IRA was dead and buried,’ Kate said. Frank put a finger to his lips and patted her on the arm.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘You’re right, it’s ancient history and I never said a feckin’ word.’ He drained the last of the whiskey and got to his feet.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You can ask at the office whether they mind you taking snaps of Terry’s monuments. I can’t see why they would. They should be pleased.’

  They walked into the city centre in silence, avoiding the thickening crowds of Beatles fans, and Frank O’Donnell led her to a modern office block close to the docks. There was a police car parked outside and he groaned.

  ‘They’ll want to feckin’ talk to me,’ he said. ‘I should have waited until the coast was clear of them beggars.’

  ‘Were you supposed to be in charge?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I was supposed to be the feckin’ foreman,’ he admitted. ‘The usual whacker’s off sick. But if they want to know who was working on the site, I haven’t had a clue most of the time. Lads come and go. I didn’t even know the name of the lad who fell till his mates told me. From Limerick, they said. Another tinker, I guess. Thick as two short ones. What a feckin’ mess.’ Kate was surprised at how anxious her father suddenly seemed to be.

  ‘Don’t they have a union?’ she asked.

  ‘Not on Terry Jordan’s sites they don’t,’ her father said. He glanced at the police car angrily.

  ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ he said. ‘You’ll be wasting your time here today. They won’t want anyone with a camera mooching around their sites after this.
They’ll batten down the hatches till Terry comes back. You’ll get nothing out of anyone in the office. They’re scared silly of the boss.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Oh, if he wants to lay the blame on me, that’s what he’ll do. He’ll tell the police it’s my fault if it suits him. He’s done very well for himself has Terry and he won’t let anything interfere with that.’

  SEVEN

  Detective Sergeant Harry Barnard strolled through Soho feeling completely at odds with the world. He had spent the previous evening drinking steadily in the bars and clubs, which were now firmly closed, and had gained a serious hangover that needed a hair of the dog, not easily available at ten in the morning. He had no doubt that if he threw his weight about he could get what he wanted in spite of the licensing laws, but he did not feel fit enough for that. At least, he thought through the fog in his brain, he had rejected the offers of hospitality made by some of the women he’d encountered last night. Which had boosted his morale slightly but done nothing to resolve the problem of Kate’s absence. She had left a void he could barely cope with. He was not at all sure how he got back to Highgate, except that he’d woke alone in his own bed and his car was untidily parked outside.

  To his surprise he felt a hand on his arm, and spun round close to panic only to find Evie Renton behind him. Evidently off duty at this time in the morning, she was wrapped in a scruffy mac, with no make-up and her hair unkempt.

  ‘You’re very jumpy,’ she said. ‘And you don’t look any better than last time I saw you. Worse in fact. Do you want to come in for a coffee? I promise I won’t make a pass, though to be honest you don’t look as if you’re up for it today.’

  ‘What are you?’ he asked, managing a faint smile. ‘Some sort of guardian angel?’

  ‘I get called a lot of things, but not usually an angel,’ she said.

  ‘Go on then,’ Barnard said. ‘A quick coffee won’t hurt before I go and talk to the DCI. That’s not something I’m looking forward to.’ He had not been able to see DCI Jackson the day before because Jackson had been at the Yard attending meetings, so he had not yet had an opportunity to report on his conversation with Alicia. He was not unhappy to have some extra time to think about what she’d told him, a mixture of the specific and the vague which he reckoned she’d severely edited anyway. And he knew she would not be best pleased if what she’d told him led to more visits from the police. She’d said she was being paid to keep quiet, and if it became obvious that she had attracted police attention the threats might be followed up. Moreover, he’d been well off his own turf, effectively freelancing in Pimlico, and this would not please Jackson or the local nick.

  He followed Evie back to the narrow nineteenth-century building where she had her flat, followed her slowly up the narrow staircase and slumped in an armchair until she plied him with strong coffee.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ Evie said as she handed him a mug. ‘Is she that important, this girl of yours? It’s not like you, is it, getting so involved?’

  ‘She’s that important,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t realize until she went away.’

  ‘Where’s she gone? Liverpool did you say? It’s not the end of the world, is it? Why don’t you go up there and catch up with her over the weekend? You look as if you need some fresh air. It’s seaside, isn’t it? Sun, sand and fish and chips, like Southend.’

  Barnard smiled.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘More docks and big ships, I think. Bolshie beggars always going on strike.’

  ‘Like the East End, then. You’ll feel at home up there.’ Evie, he thought, in spite of the life she led, had a capacity for optimism that never failed to amaze him.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  ‘I asked around again about what this woman found dead in Soho Square might have got involved in,’ she said. ‘A lot of people seemed to have heard rumours about important people looking for a bit on the side, and not just straight sex either. Kinky stuff. But no one seems to know anything definite or who’s involved. It’s not round here. It’s classier than that – Kensington, Knightsbridge, Westminster – and you can be sure that if the nobs are involved they’ll move heaven and earth to keep it quiet. Didn’t Alicia help you out? Did you go and see her?’

  ‘I did, but she won’t say anything on the record. Said nothing very specific at all, in fact. She’s got herself untangled from whatever’s going on, but she’s still much too scared to talk.’

  ‘It might be best to just leave it alone, if you ask me,’ Evie said. ‘Since Profumo and the scandal and court cases they had last year they’ll be even more determined to keep things under wraps, won’t they, the nobs and politicians? They won’t want another Christine Keeler or Mandy Rice-Davies coming out of the woodwork to cause an embarrassing fuss. You’d be well out of your depth.’

  ‘I need to tell my boss what I’ve sussed out, if anything,’ Barnard said. ‘He’ll make the decisions on what to do next. As you say, it’s probably well out of my league. All we’re really concerned with is finding out who this dead woman is. And I’m getting nowhere with that.’

  ‘Maybe just as well,’ Evie said soberly. ‘Sounds like a can of worms to me. If she’d been a regular on the game round here someone would know about it, and nobody seems to. So go and make up with your girlfriend, why don’t you? You’ve obviously got it bad. Go and say sorry, for God’s sake, whatever it’s all about, and put a smile back on your face.’ Barnard shrugged.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said putting his mug down. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  Feeling marginally more alert, Barnard finished his stroll around Soho and made his way across Regent Street to the nick. This time he was able to see the DCI straight away. He found the dour Scot with chilly eyes sitting at his desk in his usual pose, his hands steepled in front of him almost as if in prayer.

  ‘Did you find anyone who recognized the dead woman?’ Jackson asked sharply.

  ‘No, guv. No one knew her. If she was on the game, it wasn’t in Soho. But a few of the toms gave me the same story. They said there were things going on up West that they’d heard about, and maybe she was working there. One of them sent me to see a friend of hers who she thought might recognize the victim. A woman called Alicia – wouldn’t give me another name, though I expect it wouldn’t be difficult to find – who told me she’d bailed out of some sort of set-up that catered for men with kinky tastes. She didn’t like what they were doing, so she got out. She said she never knew where she was being taken, usually by car, and money seemed to be no object. And when she said she wanted no more of it, she was paid to keep quiet and there were a few threats about what would happen if she didn’t. I reckon there might be some connection with our dead woman. That ring of hers must be worth a lot of money and she suffered serious damage at someone’s hands, so there might be a link.’

  Jackson’s expression darkened as Barnard went on.

  ‘Where did you see this woman?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s got a flat on the Embankment, near Victoria. She was obviously a call girl and doing pretty well out of it. More Christine Keeler than street girl. But I didn’t necessarily believe her. She might be covering her own back.’

  ‘And did you have the sense to contact the local CID before going questioning someone down there? Didn’t it occur to you that they might know all about her anyway?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was worth bothering them unless I found something significant,’ Barnard said, knowing that this would not be viewed as sufficient reason for disregarding protocol. Jackson drummed his fingers on the desk, which was a sign that he was very unhappy indeed.

  ‘And did you find something significant? Did she recognize our victim? Did she know who she was?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. But she told me enough about what she’d got involved in to think our victim might have got mixed up in that sort of thing, too. Important men looking for thrills – violent thrills in some cases – and not too bo
thered about going too far. Our unknown victim was not just strangled, she was tortured. Whoever she was and whatever she did, no one deserves to be treated like that. And how are we to know that it might not happen again? Men can get a taste for that sort of thing and you know how it can escalate.’

  ‘You’d think important men with reputations to protect would take extreme care after what happened to Mr Profumo and his friends,’ Jackson said with obvious distaste. ‘You’ve put me in a difficult situation, Sergeant. I will have to talk to CID down there and tell them what you’ve been up to. And I’ll have to take it to the Yard. They aren’t going to think your unsanctioned initiative is very helpful. For all we know, they’re already looking into these so-called rumours.’

  ‘I suppose so, sir,’ Barnard conceded, though he didn’t really believe it. The mess the disgraced minister Profumo had got into was more to do with being economical with the truth in the House of Commons than with illicit sex. And although the subsequent prosecutions had provided much entertainment for the nation, there had been very little in the way of an obvious clean-up in high places. The rumours continued, and if anything had become more disturbing.

  ‘Well, you can expect some questions about this woman from the local CID, or even from the Yard,’ Jackson said sourly. ‘And, Sergeant, if you want to take that sort of initiative in future, please consult me first. Or there may be repercussions.’

  ‘Sir,’ Barnard said, feeling he had maybe got off lightly. For all Jackson’s faults as a boss, he had always felt that when push came to shove the DCI might be on his side in wanting to mitigate – if only on God’s behalf – the harm the sex trade did to so many people. But he did not doubt that there would be pressure from the top to avoid another major scandal swirling around the corridors of power. If it was possible to dismiss the dead woman as just another unlucky tom who’d misjudged her john, there might well be satisfaction in high places. There might be very little he could do to prevent that, but he could at least try.