by Hugh Fraser
Ed announces a fifteen minute break and I go into the corridor, pour myself a cup of coffee and sit next to Kim.
‘One of the prop boys said you gave him a good kick in the knackers,’ she says.
‘Least I could do,’ I reply.
‘Wait till I get hold of that frying pan.’
Kirsty comes and tells Kim that Deidre wants to see her again and she gives me a wink and goes to wardrobe. I sip my coffee and look round for Brindle but he’s not about. Ed comes out of the flat and the crew follow him and head for the remains of the buffet. Mike appears behind them, deep in conversation with Ken, and they move along the corridor. Ed picks up a sandwich and joins them.
I’ve suddenly got a feeling that I need to know where Brindle is. I wait until no one’s looking, then I slip in through the front door of the flat, creep into the lounge and see him on the balcony. He’s leaning on the parapet looking out over London and I know this is my chance. I open the glass door and step onto the balcony. He goes on staring into the distance and I walk slowly towards him and tap him on the shoulder.
He turns to me and I punch him on the point of his jaw. As he staggers back, I bend down, take hold of his ankles and tip him over the balcony.
I move fast out of the flat, into the corridor, and sit in my canvas chair.
21
It’s a while before he’s found. We’ve gone back in after the break, Mike and Ken are deciding on a camera position and the sparks are setting lamps. Mike asks me to lie on the floor so that they can look at the shot, and just as he calls for Brindle, a siren starts wailing, and then another one, and suddenly there’s lights flashing, the sound of tyres squealing and a voice shouting at people to stand back. Someone goes onto the balcony, says there’s a body down below and they all pile out and have a look. I follow them, go to the end of the parapet and lean over. Two police cars are on the pavement and Brindle’s in the headlights, spread out on the concrete with his head in a pool of blood. One copper is kneeling beside the body and another two are stringing crime scene tape around the area. A small crowd of people have gathered and two other plods are keeping them at a distance.
Mike runs out of the flat followed by Ed and the rest of the crew. I get to the corridor as people are piling into the lift. Deidre appears from the flat next door and grabs my arm. ‘What the fuck happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘Were you shooting on the balcony?’
I shake my head, follow the rest of the crew towards the other lift, which has just arrived, and squeeze in between a couple of prop men. Nobody talks while we creak down to the ground floor. When we get to where Brindle landed, a police van pulls up beside the cars and two crime scene officers in the white suits and hoods get out. One of them photographs the body from various angles, then he puts the camera back in the van and they both kneel beside the body. One takes a sample of the blood and puts it in a test tube, while the other takes Brindle’s fingerprints. Mike and Ed are talking with two coppers by one of the police cars. After a while Ed comes over and tells us we’re to go back up to the flat where the police will speak to us.
On the tenth floor the senior plod tells us to wait in the corridor and goes into the flat. After a while Kirsty calls us in one by one. When it’s my turn, I go in and they ask me where I was and if I saw anything. I tell them I was in the corridor with everyone else during the break, went into the lounge to shoot the scene and had no idea what had happened until the alarm was raised. They’ve got me down on a list as Rina Walker, but I say that’s just my stage name. I tell them I’m really called Gloria Wilkins and give them an address in Chiswick.
After everyone’s been questioned Don the producer arrives. When he’s had a confab with Mike and Ed, he calls us together and tells us to go home and that we’ll be contacted as soon as it’s been decided what’s going to happen after this terrible tragedy. As people are packing up and leaving Kim comes over to me, looking shocked and pale, and we walk towards the lift. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I reply.
‘Was he OK when you rehearsed?’
‘He was quiet, but he seemed all right.’
I keep my eyes down and don’t say anything in the lift and when we get to the trailers I tell Kim I need to go and she says she understands, gives me her phone number and we kiss goodbye. I go to the trailer and change out of my costume. As I step out, Kirsty sees me, tells me the car’s ready and asks me for my phone number to give to production. I make one up for her, say goodbye and head for the car. Harry starts talking as soon as I get in the back, but when I sob and sniff a bit he shuts up and drives.
I get out of the car at Marble Arch and walk up Edgware Road feeling clear and light headed as I always do after a job. I pass by the Arab shops and cafés with the men sitting outside, smoking the hookahs and drinking coffee, and I sniff the rich cooking smells on the air. An American convertible with the roof down pulls up at the lights and I get a wolf whistle and the offer of a lift from a couple of young blades in sharp suits.
As I walk on to Maida Vale I’m remembering when I was little and my Grandpa taught me that knockout punch, that I got Brindle with, and how he made me keep hitting him again and again at that exact spot beside the point of his chin until my knuckles bled. I’d come home bruised one day, after I’d been bullied by some older girls in the playground, and he swore he was going to teach me how to look after myself and make sure it would never happen to me again. He was only a small man but he was one of the best fighters around Notting Hill in his day. He taught me that speed, not strength, was the vital part of winning a fight and always to go for the weakest point first. I really loved him and Grandma and I still miss them.
As I approach the flats I slip into a doorway and check there’s nobody sitting in a parked car watching the building, just in case the news of Brindle’s death has got to some of his little friends. I can’t see anything to worry about so I go along the service road and into the foyer. Dennis is on the phone behind the desk. He sees me, holds up a piece of paper and I go over and take it from him. It’s a message from Bert telling me to call him. Dennis holds the phone away from his ear and points at it. I can hear a high pitched voice jabbering away. He mouths the words ‘the wife’ and raises his eyebrows. I smile, wish him goodnight and go and call the lift.
I stop at Lizzie’s door and wonder if I should see if she’s awake. It’s gone two o’clock and now she’s got an office job I reckon she needs her sleep but I knock anyway. When there’s no response I leave it and unlock the door to my flat. There’s an envelope with the crest of Leavenden School on the mat and I pick it up and open it. It’s the programme for the school Sports Day which is happening the day after tomorrow. I write a note for Lizzie, asking her if she wants to come with me and telling her to drop in or phone me in the morning. I slip the note under her door, then I go into my bedroom, peel off my clothes and get between the sheets with Rebecca, but I’m asleep before I’ve even opened the book.
• • •
It’s just gone eight o’clock when the phone wakes me. It’s Bert saying George wants to see me. I tell him to pick me up in an hour, then I phone Lizzie and ask her about going to Georgie’s Sports Day. She says she’d love to, as long as Gerald can mind the office, and she’ll call me back later. I make coffee, have a quick bath, and as soon as I’m dressed, Keith the porter’s on the phone telling me that Bert’s waiting. I knock on Lizzie’s door on the way past, in the hope of a quick cuddle, but she must have left for the office.
Bert parks the Jag in Lancaster Road and rings George’s bell. We wait a bit and then old Jacky opens the door in his pyjamas, sways a bit and steadies himself against the doorframe. ‘You were well out of order last night, Bert Davis.’
‘That’s the thanks I get for saving you from a fucking good hiding?’ says Bert.
‘That streak of fucking piss couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.’
‘That strea
k of fucking piss is a hundred years younger than you. He punishes the heavy bag for an hour a day, and you go and call his mother a slag.’
‘I fight my own fucking battles.’
‘I’ll leave you alone next time then.’
‘Fucking right. Making me look a cunt.’
‘Go back to bed Jacky,’ says Bert, walking past him and opening the door of the lounge. George is sitting in his usual armchair wearing a maroon silk dressing gown with a velvet collar. He points to a chair opposite him and I sit.
‘Were you in Islington last night?’ he says.
‘I was,’ I reply.
‘And that was Brindle who took a tumble off that balcony?’
‘It was.’
‘With a bit of help from you?’
‘Just a bit. How did you know about it?’
‘Bert got it from one of the crew who came in the pub.’
Bert nods.
‘How did the Bill book it?’ asks George.
‘Accidental, I reckon. Maybe suicide,’ I say.
George broods for a moment, looking at the fireplace. ‘It’s not ideal.’
‘He was hard to get to.’
‘It’ll have to do, I suppose. Do you want a drink?’
‘I want my money.’
‘Not yet.’
‘What now, for fuck’s sake?’
‘I need you to find the Teales.’
‘What’s gone on?’ I ask.
‘We put the frighteners on Danny and Jack and got the story that they only told Brindle they’d go with him against me so they’d get Dawn back and they were going to do him once they’d got her.’
‘They don’t give a fuck about her,’ I say.
‘I know that now.’
‘So where are they?’
‘No one knows. I need you to find them and get rid of them, then you’re on a pay day.’
I know it’s a waste of time to argue as he’s holding all the cards. I look him in the eye. ‘I want your word you’ll give the money to Georgie if I get toasted.’
‘You’ve got it,’ he says, and I know he means it.
‘What about Marlene?’ I ask.
‘She just got done for fencing.’
‘Gone away?’
‘On remand.’
‘Nice.’
While I sip my whisky, I’m thinking that George is right to want the Teales gone, in case they’ve got notions about wasting him and taking over the firm. I doubt if they’ve got it in them, but they have done a runner and it’s not worth the risk.
‘What happened to Dawn?’ George asks.
‘Brindle had her banged up in Birmingham but I got her out and she’s safe and away.’
‘Nice one. Give the girl a lift home Bert.’
‘I want expenses.’
‘Bert’ll see you right.’
‘Could you drop me in Harlesden?’ I ask.
‘I don’t mind,’ says Bert.
I leave George pouring himself another drink and follow Bert to the car. On the way to Harlesden we talk about the Teales and agree that even though Danny is the better fighter, Jack is the more devious and dangerous of the brothers and he can get Danny to do anything he wants.
Bert drops me beside the second hand car lot in Scrubs Lane, gives me three hundred quid and I walk between the rows of motors looking at what’s on offer. I stop beside a Sunbeam Alpine and while I’m looking it over, a familiar figure in a trilby hat hoves into view. ‘Hello again. Bored with the Cortina already?’
‘Wrote it off, didn’t I?’
‘I hope you weren’t hurt.’
‘No, I was lucky,’ I say.
‘This Alpine is a very nice car indeed.’
While he goes into his spiel about the one careful owner and all that blarney, I decide the car is a bit too distinctive and I look round for something a bit less conspicuous. There’s a dark blue Ford Anglia in the next row that looks like it might do, so I wander over and have a look. It’s a couple of years old, done fifteen thousand miles, it’s taxed for six months and only two hundred and fifty quid. Trilby runs off to get the key while I check that it’s got a radio. We go for a drive and I have to listen to the history of the Ford Motor Company all over again, but this time the Anglia is the best car they’ve made since the Model T. After a couple of miles on the North Circular I reckon it handles pretty well, the brakes are good and it seems quite pokey. Back on the forecourt I talk him down to two twenty-five and a full tank of petrol, give him the cash, pocket the log book and drive down Scrubs Lane, with the Beach Boys, Surfin’ USA.
22
The phone’s ringing as I open the door to the flat. It’s Lizzie saying that Gerald can’t mind the office tomorrow but they’ve decided to give one of the escort girls a go at handling it because she’s got a posh accent. Lizzie’s shown the girl what she needs to do already and she’s picked it up fine, so she can come to Sports Day with me. I’m so happy Lizzie’s going to be with me and when she says that Booker T & the MGs are at the Marquee tonight and asks me if I want to go, I feel even happier and tell her there’s nothing I’d like better. She says she’s got a bit of business at the Kazuko and asks me to pick her up from there at about eight.
I go into the kitchen and look in the cabinet for something to eat. The bread’s gone mouldy and when I unwrap some sausages they smell bad too so I chuck them in the bin along with the bread. I can’t be bothered to go to the shops so I open a tin of spaghetti, dump the contents into a pan and put it on the stove to heat up. There are a couple of eggs left so I light the gas under the frying pan and drop them in once the fat’s melted. I pick up a kitchen knife, go into the bathroom, unscrew the panel on the side of the bath, take out a few notes and put them in my pocket.
When I’ve gone back to the kitchen and discovered why no one eats fried eggs with tinned spaghetti, I chuck the remains in the bin, put the dishes in the sink and go into the lounge with Rebecca. I lie on the sofa and read about our girl going to the beach again and meeting a man who’s a bit loopy who asks her if she’s going to put him in the asylum and tells her that Rebecca was like a snake. She goes back to the house feeling confused and meets the dashing Jack Favell who takes her for a spin in his sports car and chats her up, and she gets a bit frightened of him. Then Mrs Danvers tells her about Rebecca being drowned, and how she thinks she’s haunting the house, and it’s all getting creepier and more horrible for her and the words on the page start to swim in front of my eyes and I fall asleep.
I’m woken by the phone ringing, but as I get up off the sofa, it stops. I pick Rebecca up off the floor where it fell. I’m about to carry on reading when I notice the time and realise that I must have slept for ages and I need to get ready if I’m going to pick up Lizzie from the Kazuko in time to catch Booker T.
I decide on my black Anne Klein V-neck dress, sheer stockings and the Alberto Fermani heels. I freshen up my make-up, give my hair a light spray of Aqua Net and wonder whether I need to take a tool. I don’t want a blade in my suspenders if I’m dancing so I slip the knuckle duster into my shoulder bag and put on my sway-back jacket.
Dennis is behind the desk in the foyer. ‘Out on the town Miss?’
‘Looking that way,’ I reply.
‘That’s what Friday night’s for, eh?’
‘I hope you won’t go too wild in here Dennis. I know what you’re like.’
‘I’ll try and keep it down Miss.’
Through the glass door I catch sight of a cab for hire waiting at the lights. I say goodnight to Dennis and get to the road in time to flag him down. I jump in and tell him to take me to Rupert Street.
The West End’s warming up nicely as we drive down Regent Street and into Shaftesbury Avenue. I get out of the cab at the corner of Rupert Street and walk towards the Kazuko. A couple of Mods stop me and ask if I know where the Scene Club is and I tell them how to get there. The Scene is a hot little basement club in Ham Yard, off Great Windmill Street, that I’ve been to a couple of times. T
hey sometimes have bands on but it’s mostly a DJ who plays really great soul, R&B, blues, ska and rock’n’roll records to a sharply dressed crowd of Mods full of lager and pills.
When I get near the Kazuko I can see a man in a grey raincoat and fedora talking to the man behind the desk. He doesn’t look like a punter and something tells me not to go in. As I walk past, the doorman gives the man an envelope which he slips in his coat pocket. I stop and look at the menu outside a Chinese restaurant a bit further down the street, and once the man in the mac has gone past me, I go back to the club. The doorman knows me as a friend of Lizzie’s and although I’d like to know how much he’s just bunged the Vice Squad, I reckon it’s best not to ask. I pass my jacket to the cloakroom girl, put the ticket in my bag, give the doorman a smile and he waves me into the club.
All the tables are occupied and the waitresses are busy weaving their way through the punters and delivering bottles of champagne and brandy. The pianist has a bass player and a drummer with him tonight, helping him through something hot and jazzy that I don’t recognise. One of the waitresses opens the curtain that’s across one of the booths at the end of the room and I get a glimpse of a girl in a bra going down on a Japanese man. It takes me a minute to spot Lizzie at the bar talking to an older woman in a gold lamé dress, a beehive hairdo and a ton of make-up. It looks like they’re having a pretty intense conversation so I catch Lizzie’s eye, sit on a stool at the other end of the bar and order a whisky. After a while the gold lamé one walks through the tables to the back of the club and goes out through a door. Lizzie comes and sits on the stool next to me, looking a bit peeved.
‘Who was that?’ I ask.
‘The old cow who owns this dump.’
‘What’s her problem?’
‘She’s found out we’ve got a couple of girls from here working as escorts and she’s demanding a taste.’
‘They can work where they like can’t they?’