Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1)

by James White

  “Where did you get these?” Stephen asked after a time, looking back up at Nick over the top of his glasses.

  “From the flat of a woman who was murdered.”

  Stephen nodded as if this was to be expected. “You know what they are?”

  “I’ve an idea, but I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

  Stephen held one piece of paper aloft. “This one’s a page of a bank statement: Swiss numbered account, showing money in and out. A lot of money in. The other piece of paper, handwritten names, mostly foreign. Unusual. These two photos, well, I’d say these are photos taken of a British military briefing document. Looks like standing orders for troop deployments. This is pretty heavy stuff, Nick.”

  Nick nodded his head.

  “So who made these? Someone has photographed all of these then these prints have been produced from the film. That requires expertise and equipment. Your dead woman?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or someone else. Nick, the film could still be out there. What about these names and this bank statement? What have you got yourself mixed up in?”

  Nick reclined back into the armchair and twirled his brandy glass thoughtfully. “I wish I knew.” He briefly recounted the events so far and waited for Stephen to speak.

  The old man took off his glasses and laid them down carefully. “Nick, I thought, after you left the service, you were done with this?”

  “I was. I told you what happened.”

  “Listen, you know better than anyone, not having the whole picture is dangerous. This Carruthers has steered you into incredible danger but not apprised you of the full facts.”

  Nick nodded and waited for his friend to continue.

  “Clearly he’s been alerted to some sort of espionage, but it seems likely from what you’ve told me that this Ramona was the key lead for him. She was either working for him or he suspected her of working for someone else – the latter I would think. I don’t think he knew much beyond that; that’s why he’s sent you over the top. You’re the bait to flush out the big fish.”

  “Just like the old days; the ones with no clue are sent to their doom by those that know better.”

  Stephen nodded and waved the paper angrily. “Just like the old days. We both saw plans for war that will leave men dying in their thousands…” He trailed off and seemed to gather himself. “Still that’s from another time. We have to move on.”

  Nick nodded. “We do.”

  “You haven’t, though, have you, Nick?” Stephen spoke softly but the words made Nick look up sharply.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your face tells a different story. How are you sleeping?”

  Nick snorted. “Upright, in a chair, if I’m lucky.”

  “You still have the nightmares?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to talk about it, Stephen,” Nick said firmly, knocking back his brandy.

  The old man nodded. “No one does. All that sacrifice; it’s already a forgotten war. Were you and I so lucky to make it through I wonder?”

  “Never say that. Every day I thank my stars that I did make it. We have to go on and live our lives for those that didn’t. You’re all that kept me going through the darkest times. You didn’t have to come. Why did you?”

  “Your father asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  Nick swallowed heavily, pushed the memories aside.

  “When your parents were gone and you were alone but determined to avenge them with your romantic notions of war, I had to go with you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Stephen smiled. “No, but I did. I wanted to go, too. I guess we both learned different quickly.”

  “Day two on the line,” Nick said bitterly. “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “Do you still think about…?” Stephen paused. “…the incident?”

  Nick’s jaw clenched and he nodded. No word would come. Think about it? How could he ever forget about it?

  “You shouldn’t,” Stephen said softly. “It was war. Bad things happen. You had your reasons.”

  “No reason is good enough for what I did. Look where it led me.” He spat the words, bitterness filling his tone. “Got me noticed, away from the front, ultimately promoted, for carrying out even darker deeds in cold blood on quiet city streets and unremarkable rooms. Maybe you shouldn’t have saved me on day two.” He gave a harsh snort.

  “Never say that.”

  “No. I’m sorry. I owe you.” Nick gave a wan smile.

  “You don’t owe my anything. I served your family for years.” He waved around the flat. “They provided well for me, and so have you. I owe you.”

  “God, we sound like two old women.” Nick got to his feet and collected Stephen’s glass to pour them both another drink. He placed the older man’s glass down. “Look, can you do me a favour?”

  “Of course.”

  “Look after those for me.” Nick nodded at the papers. “I don’t think my place’s going to be safe anytime soon.”

  “Never mind your place, Nick. What about you?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Nick could see Stephen wanted to say something else but he let it go.

  “Okay, I’ll put them with your other things. Any time you need them, or anything else, just call for them.”

  “Thanks, Stephen.” He helped the old man up. “Now you’d better get to bed.”

  “And so should you.” Stephen wagged a finger at him and Nick cracked a smile.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll be around.” Nick slipped out the front door.

  Stephen stood framed in the doorway, a frail old man in a woolly dressing gown. “Nick, take care.”

  “I will.” Nick waved and watched the door shut then he set off for home.

  The door to Nick’s apartment stood slightly ajar. More disconcertingly, he could hear the low crackling sound of a Fats Malone swing number playing on the gramophone. He wondered for a split second if it was the German and Lucia, sending him a message, but then dismissed it. Light streamed around the edge of the door. Surely they’ve had waited for him in darkness and silence? Taking no chances, he gingerly pushed the door open with his foot and held his breath. Perhaps it was Clara? It was too early really, but maybe the club had fizzled out. Nick edged his way into the living room, wishing he hadn’t given the Luger away quite so soon. Every muscle was taut, ready to spring as he paced with measured cat-like footsteps around the corner of the door. Relief surged through him and he felt his muscles relax, but his mind stayed alert.

  “Hello, Nick. Twice in one day.” Carruthers looked at his watch. “Well, not quite, but you see I haven’t been to bed yet, so I’m slightly out of kilter. I need my sleep, Nick, and you’re not helping.”

  “You’re in the wrong job,” Nick snorted.

  Carruthers made no move to get up from the armchair next to the gramophone where he’d been sat reading a book. A nearly empty glass sat beside him. “I found your Scotch. Hope you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. Another?” Nick asked, tossing his hat onto the sideboard and pouring himself a glass.

  “Better not, or sleep really will get the better of me. You’ve been keeping some late hours.”

  “You gave me a job to do.”

  Carruthers’ presence was an annoyance Nick was trying not to let show, but he was doing a bad job of it.

  “So I did.” Carruthers leaned forward and fixed Nick with a baleful stare. “But I’m afraid I’ve got a new problem and yet again you’re sat in the middle of it.”

  “I must be lucky.”

  Carruthers narrowed his eyes in pique. “You’re very flippant, Mr Valentine. I would have expected more from a man of your experience and training, even given the circumstances of your dismissal.” The last words were added with particular and, Nick thought, wholly unnecessary emphasis.

  “The story of my life. I’ve been a constant disappointment to everyone. Most of all myself. Cheers.” Nick raised his glass and finished it in one l
ong swallow. He felt a warm glow that had almost as much to do with the whisky as it did seeing Carruthers shake his head. “So, I trust this isn’t a social call? Do you want to come right to the point?”

  “The point? Where have you been tonight and who have you been with?”

  “If I told you, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Well, that would be unfortunate for you, because you really need me to believe you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You really don’t know?” A frown crossed Carruthers’ face.

  “Enlighten me.” Nick hauled himself out the chair and crossed back to the sideboard with his glass. Carruthers was making him thirsty.

  “You went to The Blue Rose tonight.”

  “You have been attentive.”

  “What did you do in there?” demanded Carruthers.

  “My turn to say ‘you don’t know?’” Nick looked at Carruthers’ blank visage and let out a laugh. “My God, you don’t know do you? Your tail not get in?”

  Carruthers flushed and for an instant Nick thought he might rise from his chair in anger, but the moment passed and he settled back, composed, but yet again, Nick noted, there had been that barely controlled spark.

  “What I know is that you went in. A while later, a high-ranking officer left, pursued by individuals of interest. Our man followed them.”

  “So I might have stayed in there all night?”

  Carruthers gripped the arms of his chair. “You might, but I don’t think you did. Dammit, Nick, what happened in there? Why did Brigadier Johnson come tearing out? Why were those men following him? I want answers.”

  Nick regarded him coolly. “That makes two of us. I suggest you fill me in.” Nick put his glass down and paced the room. “You asked me to look into Ramona’s death, to see what I could find out, and gave me some vague information about persons of interest. I think you know a lot more and the reason I think that is that we’ve now got a senior army officer on a government advisory board involved, and I don’t think that was news to you. Just what is going on?” Nick stopped pacing and faced Carruthers.

  “Very well. I will share with you what we know. I told you Ramona was possibly working for a fascist. The truth is, we don’t know who she was working for, or what information she might have got her hands on nor, for that matter, who she might be passing it to. She’d only recently come to our attention.” Carruthers paused and gave a sigh. “The reason she came to our attention was that she started a relationship with Brigadier Johnson. He has access to highly classified information and it’s our jobs to keep tabs on people like that and those they associate with. We weren’t alarmed at first; we considered it a silly mid-life affair. You know, the old officer, finds an attractive dancer in a club. He started seeing her there, then dinner, hotels. It looked like it was getting serious, so we kept keeping an eye on her. That’s when we got really worried. He was seeing her more and more, and she was keeping undesirable company. We only joined the dots a week or so ago and now she’s dead. What I need to know is why she’s dead and what information she may have had; more to the point, who she might have passed it to.” He folded his hands in his lap as the gramophone quietly slurred to a stop behind him.

  “I notice you didn’t say you wanted to find out who killed her. Shouldn’t there be something in there about bringing the killer to justice?”

  “That’s the police’s concern,” Carruthers replied coldly. “Obviously we’re interested, but only from an intelligence point of view.”

  “Nice to know you care,” Nick said bitterly.

  “There are higher things at stake here. You should know that better than anyone. We may be heading for another war before long and we need all the intelligence we can get, but so does everyone else. That makes for dangerous times. Ramona was a victim of her time and her profession.”

  “Dancing.”

  “Spying.”

  “Do you know that for certain?”

  Carruthers gave a sigh. “Nothing is certain in this line of work, but we strongly suspect. So what have you found out?”

  “You know Johnson got Ramona a flat?”

  “What?” Carruthers sat bolt upright.

  Nick shook his head. “And you were keeping tabs on both of them.”

  Carruthers was already reaching for his notebook. “Where?”

  “Relax. Someone’s already been there. That’s where I went tonight after the club. The place had been turned over good and proper. I had another look myself; there’s nothing there. You search her main flat?”

  “Of course.”

  “You find anything?”

  Carruthers shook his head. “I’m going to need that address, Nick.”

  “Ground floor, fifteen Conway Street, but you’re wasting your time.”

  “Maybe, but I’ll be the judge of that. What else?”

  “I told the Brigadier that Ramona was dead. He didn’t know. Then I told him to leave; he was attracting the attention of the two men your tail saw running out.”

  “Anything else?”

  Nick shrugged. “That was it. I searched the flat then came home.”

  Carruthers stared at him. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. So what do you want me to do now? Are we done?”

  Carruthers stood and moved, pushing his face into Nick’s. “No, we are not done. You’re still officially a suspect in the murder of Ramona. I’ve got no leads here. My men can’t even get into the clubs you patronise, the ones that they can find. I know about all your illicit dens and late-night spots; what I don’t know is who goes there or why, and what they might be up to. You’re useful. I need you as my eyes and ears, and I need you to keep digging.”

  “Why not just pull in the Germans and the Italians?”

  “Because I’ve got nothing to go on. They’d wriggle free and then they’d know I was on to them. I need more and I need to know what they’re doing.”

  “How long are you going to keep me doing this?”

  “As long as I like,” sneered Carruthers and Nick had to fight an impulse to punch the man.

  A tense silence stretched between them, broken by the sound of a key in the lock. Clara strode into the room, her face a mask of fury. She checked herself as she saw Carruthers; surprise then shock flicked across her face, before it settled into a forced smile that convinced no one.

  “Sorry I didn’t realise you had company,” she said.

  “Mr Carruthers was just leaving,” Nick replied, steering the man with a firm grip on his elbow.

  Carruthers, for his part, was staring intently at Clara. “Yes, I was, Miss…?”

  “De Vere.”

  “I see. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He turned to Nick. “Interesting company you keep.”

  Nick shoved the man’s hat into his arms and pulled him to the front door. Nick was tired, and tired of Carruthers and his barbed statements and supposition. “One last thing,” Nick said as he opened the front door. “What is Brigadier Johnson working on?”

  Carruthers paused by the door and looked as if he was about to say something, then his eyes drifted past Nick. Nick half turned his head. Clara was standing down the hall watching the two of them. He turned back to Carruthers, who gave a slight smile.

  “No idea and nothing for you to concern yourself with. Good night.” He topped his hat at Clara over Nick’s shoulder, turned and clomped down the stairs.

  Nick stood at the door until he heard the front door slam shut. He was all too aware of Clara’s silently boiling fury behind him. He mentally braced himself and turned with a conciliatory smile. It was time to face the music.

  CHAPTER 6

  Clara didn’t stay. Nick had endured a whirlwind of accusation and ire that he’d sat stoically through. After she’d blown away into the rising dawn, he washed and lay down on the bed. He must have dozed, because the nightmares awoke him in a cold sweat around ten. It was probably the longest sleep he’d had in days.

  He shaved and
washed again, knocked up a Bloody Mary to stave off the dull thud of the hangover beginning to press at the fringes of his temples and sat quietly in an armchair, the mid-morning sunlight throwing dappled shapes across the carpet. He didn’t have a lot to go on, but he had more than Carruthers, and that thought pleased him. At least he knew what the stakes were, and probably most of the players. What nagged at him, though, was why Ramona had only those prints; where were the negatives? How had she got them developed? And what did the list of names mean?

  Inspiration came after the second Bloody Mary. If you knew where to look in Soho you could get almost anything – uppers, downers, opium, cocaine; hell, that was still everywhere despite the Act. You could also get dirty magazines or just buy dirty pictures. There was a whole underground enterprise built and growing around creating and supplying titillating shots of nude models, if you knew where to look. Nick knew where to look.

  Roberto Corleno ran a bookshop on the Charing Cross Road, full of rare first editions and dusty prints. A small bell tinkled as Nick walked in. An old man browsed some tomes in the corner while Roberto, all five foot four of him, beamed at Nick from behind the counter.

  “Hey, Nick, long time no see. How’s things?” Roberto was already out from behind the counter slapping Nick heartily on the back, his thick Italian-American accent already spitting words faster than Nick could make out. “You are after some new books? Some reading materials? Whaddya looking for, Nick? History? Science? Art?” He winked at the last one.

  “No books today, Roberto.” He steered the man away from the other customer and lowered his voice. “I’m looking for somewhere I can get some pictures developed.”

  “You tried the chemist?” laughed Roberto.

  “These aren’t the kind of pictures you take to the chemist, Roberto.” He smiled conspiratorially and was rewarded with a nudge from Roberto.

  “Oh you going into business, Mr Valentine? Or this some personal pleasure? Hey you know a lot of them girls from The Blue Rose, eh? Oh my, Nick, please tell me. I’d love to see those.” He was rubbing his hands together in glee.