by Dan Kavanagh
Duffy went home thinking that there were parts of his job he quite enjoyed. What he really needed to discover was how the new power structure of the Golden Mile worked: who owned what, who dealt in what, who fixed and ran what. He could ask Carol, of course; though he didn’t like to involve her, especially if the case was going to get anywhere near Sullivan. He could try chasing down a few old contacts; he could see if the black girl – what was she called? – would help. Not that he’d been very nice to her apart from taking her some flowers at the hospital when she’d cut her bum on the baked bean tin. There was another possibility – calling on Renée, that is, if she was still working. Renée was a whore he’d always got on well with, a sharp, businesslike whore with a sense of humour; she’d been around the streets for about twenty years now, and must be pushing forty. But she knew most things that were going on, and was willing to sell most of the things that she knew. If McKechnie wanted an invoice, though, he’d have to whistle for it. Renée didn’t exactly fill out V.A.T. forms.
Next morning McKechnie called.
‘It’s gone up,’ was the first thing he said.
Duffy was not surprised. ‘How much?’
‘Hundred and fifty. But I’ve got four days to pay. Salvatore said he was feeling generous.’
‘That’s standard,’ said Duffy. ‘Did you record it all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then this is what I want you to do. Turn the tape over and start on side two. Phone Sullivan and record your conversation. Take a tough line with him, say you’ve already lost three hundred and fifty quid thanks to him, tell him the fee’s gone up again and you want some action this time. Tell him that when you make the drop you want to be certain that there’s an officer watching. Tell him you want a description of that officer and his name and where he’ll be, so that you can check that Sullivan is doing what he says he is. Try not to put his back up too much, but pull an outraged-citizen act…’
‘I am outraged,’ said McKechnie.
‘Of course; sorry. But act like someone who is getting towards the end of his tether and might do something Sullivan wouldn’t like. Give the impression you might go to his superiors or to the newspapers or something. I’m sure he’ll be hell-bent on calming you down. Do you think you can manage that?’
McKechnie said he thought so.
‘When you’ve made the call, take the tape out, put it in an envelope and give it to your secretary. Tell her’ (Duffy quickly thought up some gumshoe ploy which would make McKechnie feel he was getting his money’s worth) ‘to go to the snack bar at the west end of Paddington Station at three o’clock. I’ll be sitting with my back to the counter with a large brown parcel on the seat next to me. She’s to ask if the seat is free and when I say it is she’s to slip the envelope on to the counter between us. Do you think she can do that?’
‘She’s proved more or less capable in all I’ve given her to do so far.’
‘Good. Oh, and there’s another thing. I’ll need some cash for some information. I’m going to talk to a whore, and as you probably know, whores don’t give receipts.’
‘How much?’
‘Not sure. Maybe fifty or so.’
‘Mr Duffy, I wouldn’t want to find you proving as big a drain on my resources as Mr Salvatore is. Do you follow me?’
‘All right. So can you put the fifty in with the tape.’
‘No. Take it out of your advance. She may not talk, after all.’ That was true enough.
‘O.K. And remind me what your secretary’s called.’
‘Belinda.’
At three o’clock Duffy was at Paddington Station, his back turned to the snack bar counter. Suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder, and a high-pitched voice trilled,
‘Oh, Mr Duffy.’
He spun round. It was the secretary. He winced.
‘Mr McKechnie asked me to give you this.’ She handed him a brown envelope. ‘I don’t like to be nosy, but I think it’s got a tape recording in it.’ Then she leaned over to him, smiled, and whispered, ‘I say, Mr Duffy, isn’t all this exciting?’
If Duffy had had them with him, he would have walked out of the snack bar wearing his King Kong mask and his clown’s hat, just to make sure that nobody noticed him.
Back at the flat, he found that the first side of the tape didn’t have anything unexpected on it. Duffy played it through, mainly just listening to Salvatore’s voice. It didn’t seem as foreign as McKechnie had described, but it had the authentic tang of a man who’s calling all the shots and enjoying it. Towards the end of the conversation, McKechnie said,
‘You’re squeezing me too hard, don’t you know that?’
‘Squeezing you, Mr McKechnie? Squeezing you? I can promise you that you’d be feeling it if I were. No, no. You’re just helping me out with my little cash-flow crisis, that’s what you’re doing.’
‘Where am I going to find a hundred and fifty in four days?’
A little chuckle from the other end of the phone.
‘Oh, I’m sure the shareholders will accept a reduced dividend just for this one year.’
‘You mean you’re going to lay off me?’ He sounded whingeingly hopeful.
‘No, I don’t exactly mean that, Mr McKechnie. Indeed, I can’t see my cash-flow crisis being solved in the immediate future. I might even have to call on you for some increased sums.’
‘I can’t find the amount you’re asking for.’
‘Well, Mr McKechnie, all I can say to that is that you might find yourself called upon to liquefy some of your capital assets.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’m sure you don’t need all that storage space you’ve got. Two warehouses – I would have thought with a better storekeeping policy you could probably manage with just the one. Wouldn’t you?’
‘I couldn’t get rid of one of my warehouses.’ There was almost a note of panic in McKechnie’s voice. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Suck it and see, Mr McKechnie. Suck it and see.’
On the second side of the tape McKechnie was displaying a lot more bottle. Maybe he’d caught it from Salvatore; maybe he suddenly realised that Duffy would be listening and wanted to put on a less craven performance. After hearing it straight through, Duffy rewound and picked it up again in the middle.
‘…the last time.’
‘Well, we’ll do our best, McKechnie, I won’t promise you anything more than that.’
‘I haven’t been too impressed with your best so far, Sullivan. I’m just suggesting to you that now might be the time to get your finger out. I’m suggesting that what I want this time is some assurance.’
‘Like what?’
‘I want to know that one of your men is at the scene when I make my drop.’
‘O.K., you have my assurance.’
‘I want more than that, Sullivan. I want to know who’s going to be there; I want a description of him so that I can check he’s there; I want his name and rank so that if necessary I can get in touch with him later.’
‘You trying to teach me how to run my department, McKechnie? I’m not having some…………..coming on to my patch and telling me how to run my shop. I’m not having you interfering with my boys.’
‘I hope you won’t be too unco-operative, Sullivan.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I say.’ McKechnie played it cool. ‘I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if the police afforded a local trader the normal degree of co-operation.’
‘Hmmm.’ If Duffy had been Sullivan, he would have called McKechnie’s bluff and told him to bugger off. Sullivan was more cautious. ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. I’m not telling you any officer’s name or rank, but I’ll give you a description of one of the officers covering the drop. Ring me when you know where it’s going to be.’
Duffy stopped the tape. Then he ran it back for a few seconds and got Sullivan speaking: ‘…run my department, McKechnie? I’m not having some………….coming
on to my patch and telling me how to run my shop.’ There was a gap in the tape about two and a half seconds long. Duffy rang McKechnie.
‘There’s a gap in the tape.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a gap in the tape. What was Sullivan saying?’
‘Oh, that, Mr Duffy, yes there is, you’re quite right. It’s quite all right, it wasn’t anything of relevance to the case.’
‘What was it and why did you wipe it?’
‘Well…you see, it struck me that if this tape ever…well, ever became part of an investigation for instance, if it ever became part of a case, you know what I mean, Mr Duffy?’
‘All right.’
‘Then I wouldn’t want to be thought of by those listening to the case in the terms in which the Superintendent chose to describe me. You may think I’m being oversensitive, but that’s how I reacted anyway.’
‘And what did he call you?’
‘I’d need your assurance that you wouldn’t repeat it.’
‘All right.’
‘Well, he called me…a syphilitic sheep-fucker.’
Duffy smiled into the telephone.
‘Your secret is safe with me, Mr McKechnie.’
This was on a Tuesday. The drop was on the Friday. At eleven McKechnie phoned Duffy at his flat.
‘Same time. One o’clock. Dustbins again. Brewer Street. Dustbins by the garage entrance next to Gino’s Delicatessen. The one farthest away from the shop. Sullivan said he’d have a man in the window of the café opposite Gino’s. Said I should come down Brewer Street on the wrong side, pretending not to see Gino’s, check that his man was there, and then cross the road and make the drop.’
‘What did he say his man looked like?’
‘He said he’d be wearing a scarlet tie so that I’d see him easily through the window. He wouldn’t tell me anything more about what he looked like.’
‘O.K. You do exactly as both of them told you. I’ll be in touch later.’
Duffy wanted to be in place early, to see Sullivan’s man arrive. But Sullivan’s man would have to get there early to make sure he got a window seat in a café at one o’clock. So Duffy would have to be there even earlier. He took a cab. McKechnie would have to pay for this necessary luxury.
He got to Brewer Street around eleven thirty and walked slowly down its length in punter style. He spotted Gino’s quickly, and then the café on the other side of the road. The dustbins could be seen easily from the café. But the trouble was, there wasn’t anywhere obvious for Duffy to place himself and be able to observe both the drop and the café. There was a pub fifteen yards down from the café: he could see the drop from there, but then he wouldn’t be able to see Sullivan’s man. Or there was a dirty bookshop from where he could see the café but not the drop; perhaps he could buy something, so that he wouldn’t get thrown out, and then just browse for a bit. No, that was no good; he had to see the drop. Then why not sit in the café as well? It might get a bit awkward when both he and Sullivan’s man got up to tail the pick-up at exactly the same time, but he’d just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.
Duffy decided on the café. He went in at about twelve and sat at a side table away from the window. He ordered a meal he didn’t in the least need, and began his wait. Twelve fifteen and a few early lunchers arrived. Twelve thirty and the place was really starting to fill up. There were only two free tables left in the window. Twelve forty-five and there was only one. At least the other customers would give Duffy cover, but where was Sullivan’s man? Then he noticed that the one free table had a plastic Reserved sign on it. That was getting a bit lordly. Twelve fifty and the man in the scarlet tie sauntered in. Duffy took a quick look and put his head down.
Shaw. Christ, he hadn’t reckoned for that. Old Rick Shaw, as he’d been nicknamed at West Central. He hadn’t allowed for that; he’d thought it would be some wet-ear he’d never set eyes on before. That changed everything. He didn’t at all fancy trying to tail the pick-up man and stay out of Shaw’s way at the same time.
At twelve fifty-five Duffy carefully left the café, turning his head away as he walked past the window occupied by Shaw. He got to the pub and saw to his relief that there was a knot of drinkers on the pavement. With a half of bitter in his hand he stood around as if he could almost be part of their group. At twelve fifty-nine McKechnie went past the pub, walking as if looking out for something, peering rather shortsightedly into shops. He was doing it well, Duffy thought. He saw him reach the café, go past it for ten yards, stop, turn, then suddenly pretend to spot Gino’s on the other side of the road. At a minute past one he reached the dustbin and made the drop. Then he headed off back the way he’d come, turned down Great Windmill Street and disappeared.
At four minutes past one Shaw came out of the café, turned sharp right, didn’t give the dustbin a glance, and hurried off. That was not part of the plan at all, as far as Duffy had imagined it. Was Shaw merely there to keep McKechnie happy, and was Sullivan in effect simply handing the money over to Salvatore? Or was Shaw just part of a two-man team, and Sullivan had wisely pulled him out in case someone watching had seen McKechnie look in at the restaurant window? Still, at least it meant that Duffy wouldn’t have to worry about mixing his tail with Shaw’s.
At one fifteen a scruffy youth in denims came hurrying down the street. He stopped by the dustbins, rooted about in the right-hand one, then the middle one, finally landed on the one where the envelope was, picked it out and stuffed it in his pocket. Whether he’d gone through all three dustbins because he wanted to look like an authentic rag-picker or whether he’d done so because he was all fucked up and couldn’t remember which bin to look in, Duffy didn’t know or care.
Duffy had guessed that the youth would head east along Brewer Street. This wasn’t a difficult gamble, as west would take him out into Regent Street, and he didn’t see this kid losing a tail by mingling indistinguishably with the clientèle in Jaeger’s. As the scruff was making up the hundred yards to get level with him, Duffy squinted round looking for likely police tails. Part of being taught how to tail is being taught how to recognise tails and lose them. The kid was almost level with him and nothing likely had presented itself. He let the kid go thirty, forty yards before deciding he couldn’t let him get any farther away; not in Soho. He’d just have to risk it about Sullivan’s tail.
Duffy closed down the gap quickly: you could lose someone in ten yards at that end of Brewer Street. Shit, he was cutting through to Berwick Street market. Duffy should have predicted that. Past the Revuebar, and then in among the stalls. One person pushing a bit in a street market didn’t show. Another person pushing to keep up with the first person showed a lot. The youth dodged about a bit among the stalls. Fortunately he wasn’t very competent; or maybe he hadn’t been trained very well, or maybe he thought he didn’t need to try. After a bit of hide-and-seek he dodged down St Anne’s Court, into Dean Street, across Bateman, and into Frith. Duffy turned the corner into Frith in time to see him disappearing up the steps of the Double Blue Cinema Club.
Duffy paused. He was sure of two things. One was that Sullivan hadn’t had the kid tailed: Shaw had simply walked off and that had been the end of the surveillance. The other was that if he rushed up the steps into the cinema straight away he might as well be wearing a tin badge and whistling the theme from High Noon. He stood around for a bit, waited for a couple of punters to go into the club, prayed for another celluloid lecher to turn up quickly, and when he did, followed him quickly up the steps.
5
THE GREY-SUITED PUNTER DUFFY followed up the steps of the Double Blue looked round nervously at him, as if Duffy were a private detective hired by his wife. At the plywood box office he bought a subscription for ten pounds and paid a fiver to go in. He disappeared ahead of Duffy.
‘Member?’ asked the cashier, who looked like a soiled hippy.
‘No. But I’ll have the normal rates, not the ones you charge shits in suits.’ Duffy knew there wa
s no real ‘normal’ rate; it fluctuated according to the punter, and often the cashier’s wages at the end of the day depended on how much he took. It was up to the man in the box office to find out how much the market could bear.
‘All right. Fiver for membership, three-fifty to go in.’
Duffy looked at him quizzically. ‘Sure it isn’t two-fifty?’
‘Nah. Never has been, chief. More than my job’s worf to drop it that far.’
Duffy nodded. Hell, it was only McKechnie’s money.
‘Name?’ The cashier had pulled out a grubby white membership card on which he had inscribed a number and a date.
‘Daniel Drough.’ The hippy wrote it out in capitals, clearly finding it a change from the long run of J. Smiths and H. Wilsons that he was used to. Duffy took the card and went into the cinema.
There were two dozen people inside a large corridor of a room, with a screen about ten feet by six at the end of it. While waiting for his eyes to acclimatise, Duffy watched the film. It was like a larger version of the 10p Mini-Movies he’d watched, but a bit dirtier. It also had very bad sound. There were two girls, supposedly lying on a beach, who had taken their bikinis off and were dabbing palmfuls of sun-oil on each other; it made a slapping noise, like the sea against a harbour wall. Then one of them produced a vibrator from out of nowhere, and switched it on. It sounded as if someone had started to Hoover the beach. She applied this to the other girl’s tits; the other girl smiled. Then she applied it to the girl’s pubes, whereupon the second girl immediately flung her legs apart as if for gynaecological examination, threw her head back, and began to pant. In order to be heard over the sound of the vibrator she had to pant very loudly. It sounded as if a large sheepdog had been harnessed to a Hoover, was pulling it up and down the beach, and getting very tired. Duffy’s cock informed him that this wasn’t a very good film.