Back in the newsroom, I called her flat from one of the phone booths. I let the number ring for a full minute before replacing the receiver. I called the Happy Tripper restaurant in case Shirley was already at work. Marco answered the phone.
I said: “I’d like to speak to Shirley Goldsmith, please.”
Marco said: “She’s not supposed to accept personal calls at work.”
I said: “This is the consular section of the Australian High Commission. I have an urgent query about the visas on her passport.” I thought I made a reasonable job of the Aussie accent.
I heard Marco call out to Shirley: “Some fella with a funny voice says he’s the Australian High Commission.”
Somewhere in the restaurant I could hear Shirley shouting. “If it’s that slimy limey newspaper hack, you can tell him to go bury himself in a pile of kangaroo whoopsies and stay there until he rots. I’d rather spend a night at Ned Kelly’s funeral with a dunny bucket on my head than two seconds with him.”
Marco came back on the line: “She says she’s busy.”
I said: “You’re the boss. Order her to the phone or I’ll run a story saying your chicken escallops are really dead cats from the Home for Distressed Moggies.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
I heard Marco call: “Shirley, I think you better speak to this man.”
There were a couple of minutes of argument, then Shirley came on the line. “You’re a low chiselling little rat. You cheat and lie to get your so-called stories. You make promises you don’t keep. You let a person down and then expect them to come running.”
“But, be fair,” I said. “I also have a few faults.”
“Don’t start using your wisecracks on me.”
“There’s nobody else available at the moment.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“But you’re not crying either. I reckon that’s a reasonable starting point to see if we can work this out.”
“I feel like screaming.”
“Don’t do that. This phone booth isn’t sound-proofed.”
“Do you even realise how humiliated I feel?” she said.
There was a catch in her voice and I imagined her eyes welling with tears.
“Yes, I can,” I said. “I didn’t intend it to happen and I’m very, very sorry.”
“You mean it?”
I said: “Of course. I phoned your flat twice last night from France but there was no answer. I tried again from the quayside at Newhaven this morning.”
“After you’d stood me up, I decided to spend the night in London,” Shirley said.
“In a hotel?”
“No, with an old friend from Oz who’s working here. I came straight to work this morning.”
I said: “I expect you were able to catch up with all the news from back home with her.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Shirley said: “I suppose I have to congratulate you on the story. Marco’s just brought in the early edition.”
I said: “Thank you. That means a lot. I’d like the opportunity to explain what happened. Why I didn’t meet you in London last night. Could we get together after work?”
“I get off at six.”
“Shall we have dinner at English’s?”
“No, I’ll have eaten here. Come to my flat.”
“I’d like that.”
“But don’t bother to bring a toothbrush.”
She rang off.
Back at my desk, I spent a couple of minutes thinking about Shirley.
I was pleased that she’d agreed to meet but I’d been unsettled by the conversation. Shirley’s anger had blown itself out like a typhoon, as it always did, but she was a determined girl. When she’d made up her mind about something, there was no changing it. I wondered whether we’d still have a relationship by the end of the evening.
But I didn’t have long to wonder, because Figgis popped up beside my desk. He was in shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He was wearing a green visor over his eyes. He’d obviously been watching too many Hollywood newspaper movies.
He said: “I want to splash with Darke’s arrest in the night final and relegate the Trumper death to second lead.”
I said: “We may have less than half an hour to edition time after the arrest.”
“That’s why I want you to write the tail of the story now. You know, the usual thing. Notable local businessman, well connected, but controversial developments, attracted criticism, etcetera.”
“Three hundred words be enough?”
“Plenty. Phone in the story’s peg to the copy takers as soon as you can. I’ll alert them to be ready for it.”
“What about the Cross file?” I said.
“We’ll lead on that tomorrow,” he said. “We’ve naturally made a copy of the contents. Collect it from my office and write the story when you return from the Darke arrest.”
He headed back to his office.
Sally Martin pointed at his visor and called out: “Going on holiday, Mr Figgis?”
There was general laughter.
“Everyone, get on with your work,” Figgis growled.
The tail of the Darke arrest story would have to be a cuttings job. Which meant another trip to the morgue to seek help from Henrietta and the Clipping Cousins. I glanced at the clock on the newsroom wall. I had just enough time to go to the bakers.
This time, I thought I’d mark my Channel crossing by buying some French fancies.
Freddie Barkworth and I were sitting in his Hillman Minx parked just across the road from the Golden Kiss.
Freddie was the best photographer on the Chronicle. He was a small man and he moved like a nimble little gnome. He had a shock of white hair, a bulbous nose and large ears. He’d have been a dead ringer for Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit.
Freddie was a veteran lensman who’d been at the game since the days when he’d put his head under a black cloth. Yet he had the greatest gift a newspaper photographer can possess. He was always in the right place at the right time with his camera pointed in the right direction and his finger on the button.
We were waiting for Wilson and his crew to arrive so that the fun could start. He’d called me ten minutes earlier to say that the arrest team was in place and they were about to move.
Freddie said: “How do we know this Darke is in the club?”
I said: “Ted Wilson has had one of his trusted officers doing a reccie. Besides, that Roller parked near the corner” – I pointed across the street – “belongs to Darke.”
As if to confirm what I’d just said, Fat Arthur emerged from the club, and looked up and down the street.
I nudged Freddie and pointed: “And that blob of blubber on two legs goes everywhere with Darke.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t block out the light when I’m taking my shots.”
“Better have your flashgun handy.”
“Never go anywhere without it.”
I said: “The must-have shot we need is Darke being led out by the police. Make sure you get the handcuffs on Darke’s wrists into the shot.”
Freddie nodded. And at that moment, two police cars and a black Maria drove silently into the street. Wilson climbed out of the first car with another detective. Eight uniformed officers, one with an Alsatian, emerged from the other car and the black Maria. Freddie and I got out of the Hillman Minx and crossed the road. We reached the entrance to the Golden Kiss at the same time as Wilson and his team.
Wilson turned to his officers: “Right, you know what you’ve got to do. Let’s do it.”
He looked at me: “And make sure you keep out of the way.”
“Never go where I’m not wanted,” I said.
Ted grunted and led the way through the door. We passed through the lobby into the bar. It was empty apart from the singer I’d seen on Sunday evening. He was rehearsing a number with the piano player. It was Roy Orbison’s “Running Scared”. It was limping badly.
The Alsa
tian barked and the music stopped.
Wilson said to the dog handler: “Keep Pickles quiet.”
The officer patted the animal reassuringly.
Wilson said to the musicians: “For you two, the song has ended. You better leave now.”
They rummaged their sheet music together and climbed down from the stage.
At that moment, Fat Arthur emerged from the room behind the bar. He stopped in this tracks. His jaw fell. His eyes glazed with confusion. Messages passed between his brain cells. Both of them. They reached the right conclusion: police raid. He turned on his heels and fled back through the door.
Wilson said: “Turner, Barrett, MacDonald – after him.”
Three officers detached themselves from the group and sprinted for the door. They bundled through. And seconds later there were shouts of pain and the sound of furniture splintering.
Pickles barked twice. Wilson scowled at the dog handler. The officer patted the Alsatian.
I said: “Darke is probably in his office through there.”
I pointed to the door I’d come out of when I’d entered the club on my previous visit.
Wilson said: “This way.”
We headed for the door. The Alsatian was pulling on his leash. We entered the corridor lined with the plush red carpet. Darke’s office was the second door on the left. Wilson walked in without knocking. I followed close behind.
Darke’s office was huge. There was a walnut desk with brass handles, a padded chair, a red leather Chesterfield, a cocktail cabinet. On the walls, there were a couple of oil paintings of old Victorian types with beards and lofty expressions on their faces. The room smelt of good cigars.
There was no sign of Darke.
The brunette with the voluptuous figure who’d been with Darke on Sunday night was lounging on the Chesterfield. She was reading Harold Robbins’ The Carpetbaggers. She was pointing at the words and moving her lips.
She looked up as we barged in. Her eyes widened.
She said: “Oh.”
Wilson said: “Where’s Darke?”
She said: “Oh.”
He said: “Was he here?”
“Oh.”
I said to Wilson: “That bloody dog barking is better than any warning siren. He’s legged it.”
Wilson said: “He can’t have got far.”
I said: “He’ll have gone out through the kitchen.”
Wilson pointed at two constables. “Dobbs, Young – keep an eye on her.”
One of the constables leered into the room. “It’ll be a pleasure, guv.”
“And watch your behind, not hers,” Wilson said. “The rest of you follow me.”
The rest of us turned and raced down the corridor towards the kitchen. Piled through the door. And found our way blocked by the kitchen staff.
The chef brandished a meat cleaver.
The sous chef wielded a long carving knife.
The porter held an apple corer.
We stood there and stared at them.
The porter said: “In the hurry, it was the first thing that came out of the drawer.” He looked a bit ashamed of himself.
Wilson moved forward.
“No further,” the chef said. “The boss says we must give him five minutes to get clear.”
Wilson’s face was crimson with fury.
“You’ll all be charged with obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty,” he yelled.
The porter looked at the chef with worried eyes. “Is that right?” he said.
“Stand by the boss and the boss will stand by you,” the chef said.
“We’re coming through,” Wilson said.
“We’ve got knives,” the chef said.
“And an apple corer,” the porter added.
Wilson turned to the dog-handler and gestured him forward.
“We’ve got an Alsatian,” Wilson shouted. “Pickles, go get the bad men!”
The dog-handler unleashed the animal. Pickles leapt forward. The chef reached for a tray on the table behind him.
“And we’ve got eight pounds of prime fillet steak,” he screamed.
He tossed it onto the floor. Pickles slavered, bared his teeth and lunged towards… the steak. An uneasy silence descended on the kitchen. Except for slobbering sounds as Pickles enjoyed the best meal of his life.
I inched towards a set of shelves close to the door. And in one smooth movement grabbed a bag of self-raising flour and hurled it at the chef. It hit him full in the face and exploded. Four pounds of flour filled the room like a snow storm. The place looked like a winter wonderland. The chef staggered and dropped his meat cleaver. Pickles roused himself from his steak dinner. He decided the porter’s leg would make a tasty dessert and sunk in his teeth. The porter screamed. He stumbled sideways and knocked the carving knife out of the sous chef’s hand.
Wilson hollered: “At ’em.”
The constables charged forward and locked fists with the kitchen staff. A knot of struggling bodies surged around the room. Men cursed, screamed, cried out in pain. A plate smashed on the floor. A pile of saucepans overturned with a crash. Cutlery from an upturned drawer slid to the ground with a sound like shrapnel on a slate roof.
Flour dust choked the air. A white mist filled with flailing arms and legs was the last image I saw before I slipped out of the back door into the mews.
Darke was at the far end of the mews.
He was trying to get a car key into the lock of a sporty-looking red Lotus.
I glanced behind me. There was no sign of Freddie Barkworth. I clenched my jaw with frustration – we were going to miss great pictures.
Then I sprinted towards Darke. He was still struggling with the key.
I was ten yards from him when he opened the door.
Five yards as he slid into the driver’s seat.
Two yards as he slammed the door.
I reached the car as he started the engine. I tugged at the door but it was locked. Darke’s head turned towards me and he bared his teeth in a triumphant grin. He knew he was going to get away. To escape justice. Then his focus was back on the car controls. He put the Lotus in gear. I moved forward and leapt on to the bonnet. Pressed my body against the windscreen so he had no forward vision. I could feel the engine throbbing smoothly beneath me and the beginnings of warmth as the carburettor glowed hot.
From inside the car Darke screamed something. It was a deep feral roar of fury that echoed off the walls of the mews. I could feel the vibrations come up from the gearbox as Darke shifted back to neutral. He depressed the accelerator until the engine was revving so hard the bonnet was shaking. He was trying to intimidate me with the power of the Lotus.
He shouted: “I’ll kill you, Crampton. You won’t be the first.”
In response, I thumped on the windscreen. The gearbox crashed as Darke thrust the car into first. The engine revs deepened. The exhaust growled like a bear as the car sped forward. The acceleration was frightening. I clung onto the windscreen wipers. Continued to press my body against the windscreen.
Darke slammed his foot on the brake. The Lotus skidded to a halt. I lost my grip and slid from the bonnet. My head thumped into the cobbles as I hit the ground. I lay there dazed. For a moment, the only sensation was the acrid smell of burnt rubber from the tyres. Then my mind refocused and I realised Darke was backing the Lotus up the mews. He stopped and revved the engine, harder than before. He leant forward so that he could see me. He drew his finger across his neck in a cut-throat gesture.
I heard the gearbox squeal angrily as Darke forced the car into first. And then the Lotus was racing towards me as I lay prone on the ground.
I scrambled to my feet. Lost my footing on the slimy cobbles. Regained my balance. Leapt to the side. The Lotus’s wing mirror brushed my arm as it raced by.
I watched in dismay as Darke hurtled towards the exit and freedom.
And then the car’s brake lights flashed red.
The tyres squealed on the cobbles.
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The Lotus’s rear-end fishtailed.
The engine stalled.
The car juddered to a stop.
The exit was blocked by Freddie Barkworth’s Hillman Minx which had just pulled into view.
Barkworth leapt from his vehicle with his camera already clicking. Seconds later, Wilson and two of the constables rushed from the Golden Kiss kitchen and ran towards me down the mews.
Wilson and the constables sped straight past me. They reached the Lotus and hauled Darke out. He didn’t struggle or put up any kind of resistance as they handcuffed him.
As I walked up, Wilson was saying: “…anything you say may be taken down and given in evidence against you.”
Darke’s eyes had turned a deeper blue and seemed to be drawn closer together than usual. He looked at me with a smouldering hatred.
I said: “Have you any comment on your arrest, Mr Darke?”
He said: “I am completely innocent of any charges brought against me. I am a respectable businessman. It is impossible to bring any charges.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Wilson.
I said: “Will you now be abandoning your casino plans for the Krazy Kat site?”
Darke said: “You’ll regret the day you stuck your nose into my business, Crampton.”
“I look on it as shining a light into the Darke,” I said.
Anger flashed in Darke’s eyes. He moved forward and raised his handcuffed hands to strike me. And at that moment, Freddie stepped forward and took his picture.
Two hours later, I was patched up, dusted down and sitting at my desk in the newsroom chatting over a cup of tea with Freddie.
I’d phoned in my copy from a telephone box opposite the Golden Kiss. Now I was looking at the headline in the night final. It read:
TYCOON ARRESTED AFTER CAR DRAMA
Freddie’s picture was cut across six columns of the front page.
I said: “When I couldn’t see you after I came out into the mews, I thought you’d disappeared.”
He said: “As soon as we saw that Darke wasn’t in his office, I knew he must have left by the back route. I ran back through the club, jumped in the old Hilly, raced it around the block – and the rest you know.”
“So you were in the right place at the right time.”
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