“And the stamp duty.”
“Never mind the stamp duty!”
Macrae felt the Glenmorangie burst from his pores in sweat. “Listen to me. Don’t you give him a penny. D’you hear?”
“Yes, Mr Macrae.”
“Not a bloody penny. Just you sit tight in your wee flat and let me have a word with him. OK?”
He had considered explaining about the administration costs and the stamp duty but it would only have upset her even more. He wondered how people like Gladys Twyford survived.
“Thank you, Mr Macrae. I won’t.”
He sat looking at the phone for some minutes after he had hung up. First Billy Rampton, now Gladys Twyford. To some people he must look like a bloody millionaire.
CHAPTER XVIII
“Respect,” Stoker said. “That’s the most important thing. I mean I respect you, you respect me. Right?” He was slightly drunk. “What about love?” Molly said. “Where does that come in?”
“Respect and love. Respect…love…sex…”
They were naked together in the semi-darkness of Molly’s room. Stoker was drinking champagne, Molly vodka. The bedroom had been decorated when Artie was alive and when each had had their own rooms. It was fluffy and girlish with a canopy over the bed and most flat spaces occupied by little china ornaments.
Stoker looked at the glass. “Dunno why people drink the stuff. Tastes sour to me.” He poured a little champagne into Molly’s navel and licked it.
“Don’t. It’s cold.”
“Doesn’t turn you on?”
“Women don’t like cold things. You know what they say about the definition of a gentleman?”
“What?”
“A man who warms his hands first.”
“Why? Oh, yeah…I see. Before he puts them — ”
“That’s it, Gary.”
“You ever done it in a swimming-pool?”
“No. Why?”
“Just wondered.” He pushed himself on to his back. “That’s why I like older women. You can talk to them about things like that.”
“Doing it in swimming-pools?”
“Yeah. You can’t talk to young birds that way. They dunno what the hell you’re on about. Most of them never even seen a swimming-pool. I mean a private one. Except on telly.”
“You like talking about sex, don’t you, Gary?”
“You got any objections?”
“No.”
“’Cause you like it too, don’t you? But kids. What do they know? They won’t do this, they won’t do that. No imagination.” She lit a cigarette and gave him a draw. “Tell me what you want.”
He thought about it for a moment. “I dunno, really.”
“I mean any way you like.”
“Sometimes I think there’s got to be more to it.”
“Don’t you like it the way it is?”
“Course I like it. It’s just — ”
“You’re not into S&M, are you?”
“Hang on. You mean chains and things?”
“And whips and handcuffs.”
“They wear handcuffs?”
“Some of them.”
“How do you know? You been doing it like that?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“With Artie? Is that what turned him on?”
“You know better than that.”
“Handcuffs!” He was silent for a moment and then said, “You know I ain’t heard nothing from Macrae.”
“What brought that on? Talking about handcuffs?”
“Dunno.”
“Nothing has to bring it on, does it? It’s just there all the time. It’s what’s called obsessive.”
“I told you what he done to me.”
“That’s all in the past, darling. I mean if we thought about the past all the time we wouldn’t have a future.”
He swung his legs off the bed and sat with his back to her. “I put the word out about him. The grasses’ll do the rest. I hate grasses but sometimes they’re useful.”
“I thought you wanted George on your side. I thought you wanted him on the payroll.”
“I thought so too at first. Not now. I want him out of the Force. I want him on his knees. I want him begging.”
His voice had a dreamy quality.
“You are obsessed.”
“You know what he did to me? He and two other coppers. They took me down to a cell — ”
“You told me, Gary.”
“ — and they said right, my son, we’re going to give you a serious talking to. The bastards. Anyway, don’t fucking interrupt me! If I want to tell you a thousand times I’ll do it. OK?”
“Why do we always have to talk about him? Macrae this and Macrae that. Even here in the bedroom when we’re making love. I don’t like talking about him any time, specially not now.”
“What sort of talk do you want then?”
She stubbed out her cigarette angrily and said, “Any sort of talk where Macrae’s name doesn’t come up and what he did to you and what you’re going to do to him.”
“You want to talk about sex? That’s all you can think of. Twenty-four hours a day.”
He got up and began to dress.
“Where you going? You’re not leaving me again, are you?”
“I’m going to that expensive fish place in Lisson Grove. Get us a couple of fish suppers. Get a video. Something good. Scarf ace. Something like that. OK? I got permission?”
“The last time you went down to that place you never came back.”
“You’re not my Weedin’ mother! But you sound like her all right.”
He threw his shirt across the room, pulled open a drawer, and got out a fresh one.
“Gary, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You rather fancy him, don’t you?”
“Who?”
“Macrae. You do, don’t you?”
“Don’t be silly!”
He was buttoning his shirt and he stopped. “You know what I’d like to do to him?”
“What?”
“I’d like to — ”
He paused, savouring the moment, and again there was the dreamy quality in his voice.
“Kill him?” she said.
“Yeah…Yeah…I’d really like that.”
Leo Silver was tired and cold and hungry — he hadn’t eaten tor eight hours — and he was also sore and stiff. It was dark and his eyes felt heavy. As Zoe would have said in circumstances like these: “Leo, I’m not having a very nice time.”
If he hadn’t felt so cold he would have been asleep and that was the reason he hadn’t switched on the car heater. Warmth equalled sleep and all his attention needed to be focused on Molly Gorman’s house.
He’d been sitting in his Golf, on and off but mainly on, since the day before. It was now night.
And he was missing — very badly — Zoe and his bed and a bath and a drink.
And he was missing Macrae and Eddie Twyford.
Usually the three of them would have been on a job like this and the time would have passed punctuated by a series of arguments between Macrae and Eddie about which was the best way to get from Hampstead to Bethnal Green or where to park in the West End, arguments that were irritating while they lasted but which he would have loved to hear just then.
But there never would be an argument now because Eddie was dead and Macrae was half-way down the tube and Leo didn’t know, in his cold and depressed state, whether he felt like staying on in the police.
If they busted Macrae he would think seriously of getting out.
It wasn’t as though he supported Macrae’s methods but there was something about the big thief taker that made Leo admire him in spite of himself. It was the same kind of admiration he might have had for a traction engine or a steam locomotive or a wily old buffalo.
Suddenly the image of the buffalo put another image into his mind. He had once been to a bullfight and had been moved at the tragedy of the bull and not the faena as a whole. Now for a seco
nd or two he saw Macrae as a huge Miura with the pic holes in his shoulders and the banderillas hanging down the blood-soaked neck, head lowered, waiting for the last act. And for the first time he saw him as a figure of tragedy.
With him gone there would only be people like Wilson and Scales and he wasn’t sure he could bear that. He knew — in a moment of instantaneous nostalgia — that he was never going to feel the same about the Met again.
Scales had been looking for him for the past few days but he’d managed to avoid him. Even Wilson had come looking for him on Scales’ behalf.
He wouldn’t be able to avoid him much longer. Anyway, Macrae’s leave ran out in a few days and then all hell would break loose.
When he had discussed this with Zoe she had said, “Leo, you’ve got to keep your head down otherwise you’ll get sucked into this.” And he had replied, “It’s far too late for that. Anyway that’s all the senior ranks ever do. They keep their heads down. That’s how Scales has got where he is — by keeping his head down.”
The door of Molly Gorman’s house opened. Light fell on the steps and he saw Stoker in silhouette. He watched him get into his Rolls and drive away.
It took several minutes for anyone to answer Leo’s ring on the doorbell. The lights in the house were on and he could hear the beat of music. Then the door opened and Molly stood in the hall. “Yes?”
The light was behind her and all he could see was the shape of a woman under a clinging, filmy robe.
“Detective Sergeant Silver,” he said, showing her his warrant card.
“Silver? Oh, yes, you’re George Macrae’s sergeant, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
She made no move.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m just about to have a bath.”
“It’s important.”
“Is it about George?”
“Yes it is.”
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about — ”
“And it’s about Stoker.”
“What’s Gary been up to?”
“I think you know.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“And it’s about you.”
“Me?”
“I think I’d better come in, don’t you?”
She backed away and led him into the flock-Tretchikoff drawing-room. He was able to see her more clearly. Her hair was loose and rumpled and she had nothing on under her robe. Each curve and hollow of her amply proportioned body was plainly visible and Silver, who had of late lived a celibate existence, was moved by the sight of it all.
She did not ask him to sit down but waited for him to speak. He said, “That was Stoker leaving, wasn’t it?” She nodded. “I’ve been waiting a long time. I wanted to speak to you alone.”
“Well, you’d better make it snappy. He’s only gone for fish and chips.”
“OK.” Silver took a deep breath and plunged into the murky waters of coercion. “It’s about George Macrae.”
“I thought you said it was about me.”
“We’ll get to you.”
She lit a cigarette and pushed back her heavy hair. He knew she was in her forties but even so she had something.
“I understand George Macrae borrowed some money from your late husband.”
She eyed him stonily. “What about it?”
“I want to know if it’s true and how much.”
“He never discussed his business dealings with me.”
“I’ll bet.”
“It’s true.”
“OK, well let’s pretend it is the truth. In that case you’re being done by your boyfriend. He’s taking your money.”
“Gary’s my business manager.”
Silver digested this piece of unlikely information.
“I’ve never met Stoker. Sorry — Gary. But I’ve seen his file and I wouldn’t have immediately placed him in a commercial advisory capacity.”
“I don’t give a damn where you’d place him. Listen, I’ve no time — ”
“That’s only part one. The word’s out on the street and my guv’nor won’t like it.”
“George never sent you. He’d never send a young lad on something like this.” Then she said, “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
“No one’s perfect.”
“I mean what’s a Jew doing in the Met?”
“I must introduce you to my parents.”
“Artie was a Jew. He’d never have gone into the police.”
“As I recall his file Artie went into all sorts of other things, most of which were illegal or unethical.”
“That was long ago. Before we were married.”
“I want you to stop Stoker. I want whatever you’re holding — an IOU or whatever it is — destroyed. I want this forgotten. OK?”
“You must be out of your mind coming here and demanding things like that.”
“Listen — ”
“No, you listen. I’ve known Macrae for years. I tolerated him because Artie had a soft spot for him. But I hate coppers. And Macrae crawled to him for money!”
“Macrae never crawled to anyone and you know it!”
“I tell you he was desperate!”
“I know the guv’nor a lot better than you. He never crawled to anyone, least of all to some bent little bookie, or for that matter a cowboy like Stoker.”
“You watch your mouth!”
Suddenly Silver lost his cool. “You brought up the old days. OK. So here’s a little history lesson.” He pulled from an inside pocket a folded sheet of paper. He knew most of it off by heart but reading it seemed more dramatic. “Molly Anne Gorman, 43, n6e Slattery. Convicted of soliciting, shoplifting, possession of cannabis, drunk and disorderly — ”
“That’s a lie. They fitted me up on that one. Anyway so bloody what? All this was a long time ago and Artie knew all about it.”
“But what about Stoker? Does he know?”
“You’re kidding. Course he knows. I told him.” She laughed. “You really think you can come here with stuff like that and hold it over me?”
“OK. Try these names. Hadfield.”
He looked up and saw her eyes narrow.
“Leask.”
She jerked slightly.
“Prothero. Macklin…You want me to go on?”
Very slowly she sat down in one of the easy chairs.
“That was years and years ago,” she said. “I was only a kid then.”
“You were eighteen.”
“Only a kid.”
“Eighteen isn’t a kid. You know what you’re doing at eighteen. You gave these villains to the law, didn’t you? To Detective Chief Superintendent Bulloch at the Yard, to be exact. You were a grass, an informer, the lowest of the low.”
She had looked away and was staring at the wall as though Silver had left the room.
Softly she said, “I had to.”
“Why did you have to?”
“Why does anyone have to? Money, of course.”
“Drugs?”
She nodded. “Bulloch made a deal.”
“How could an eighteen-year-old — ?”
“Because I was Jack Slattery’s daughter.”
“Jack Slattery.” The name jolted him. It was a well-known name to every copper. “He killed two policemen in Shoreditch. Escaped after a few years and killed again. The police shot him dead in the West End somewhere. Is that the Jack Slattery?”
She looked towards the door. “He was part of the Krays’ scene. The East End gangs.”
“So you were right at the centre of things. A young kid. Jack Slattery’s daughter. They could talk in front of you. Safe as a house. Well, well, well. And that’s where Stoker comes from.”
“I know.”
“I mean that’s his background. The macho man from Whitechapel and points East.”
“Yeah.”
“You know the other name I’ve got on the sheet?”
She nodded again. “How was I to know I’d have
an affair with his son more than twenty years later? I mean the name didn’t mean anything to me at first. There’re lots of people called Stoker. It was just things he said. Names he mentioned. Then I knew. But by that time it was too late.”
“What d’you think Stoker would do if he knew you’d sent his dad away to die in the nick?”
“Christ you’d never — ! I mean — !”
“Do you know the phrase quid pro quol It means you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”
CHAPTER XIX
It was early evening and Macrae was driving home from Wandsworth hoping that the smell of the flat he had just visited would not have permeated his clothing. If the smell was anything to go by you could have scraped the cooking fat from the walls with the back of a knife.
The fact was it had been a partly wasted journey. Macrae had wearily climbed to the ninth floor of the tower block on the council estate — the lifts, naturally, were out of order — only to meet a man who did not know anything at all.
Literally.
His common-law wife, in her late twenties, looked to be in her late forties. Her two children appeared to Macrae to have stepped from the pages of Our Mutual Friend, a copy of which he had been reading for the past couple of months. These with their big eyes and thin bodies were what he imagined the offspring of the river rats to have been like.
The three of them watched him with a kind of dull incuriousness as he asked if Mick Buckle was there.
Mrs Buckle, doughy and overweight, said, “Where else would he be?”
She took Macrae through to the bedroom, where a man was sitting in a wheelchair — although sitting wasn’t quite the word Macrae would have used. He was strapped to the chair in case he toppled sideways on to the floor. His head lolled on his shoulder as though he had muscular dystrophy. He was facing the window and his eyes, though open, appeared to be dead.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, Mick.” It was said more as a kind of tired litany than for any sense it made. There was no reaction.
“Does he know I’m here?” Macrae said.
“He doesn’t know nothing. Brain damage.”
“What happened?”
“Hit and run.”
“I didn’t know,” Macrae said. “It’s not in his file.”
Never Die in January (A Macrae and Silver Mystery Book 2) Page 15