It wasn't magic, but a breathtaking combination of agility and speed. By the time Pete had caught hold of the end of the rope and pulled himself up to the crook of the branch, George was long gone.
Pete steadied himself against the gnarled bark of the tree, breathing hard. He looked out across the gardens, trying to catch another flicker of motion. But George had timed this well, the darkness was folding her cloak around them rapidly, and all Pete could make out were the outlines of hedges and walls where people's gardens backed onto the communal park, and the clusters of trees, black shapes diffusing into the grey of coming night. A solitary blackbird sounded out a last frantic burst of song and then everything went still.
Pete crouched down, holding on to the rope for balance. He scanned around the back of the houses, waiting for something to change, some tiny sign to point his way. All he could hear was his own breath. They may only have been three streets away from Notting Hill nick itself, but up here, shielded by the tall houses from the noise of the main road, they might as well have been in the middle of the country.
Then he saw a pinprick of light, flashing for a second out of the top floor window of one of the mid-terrace houses. Without another thought, he swung off the tree, sliding down the rope and dropping onto the grass below with a dull thud. Keeping the house fixed in his line of vision, he began to run.
He slowed as he reached the garden wall and ducked down low, running his fingers along the brickwork, feeling his way to the gate. Peering through the wooden slats, he could see that the French doors at the back of the house had been left slightly ajar. He crouched back down beside the wall, at the side of the gate, trying not even to breathe and praying that that thumping of his heart wouldn't give the game away.
The minutes stretched out in elastic time in the still cool of the garden. Pete's ears strained for the tiniest of sounds above the gentle murmur of the breeze through the grass and the occasional yowl of a cat. He felt like all his senses were heightening, ready for the chase, the hairs rising on the back of his neck.
There was the faintest of clicks as the backdoor closed and a padding of footsteps, soft-soled shoes hardly making a sound. The moment that the gate opened and the shape of George appeared on the other side, Pete launched himself straight at him in a perfect rugby tackle, bringing the thief crashing to the ground. A startled gasp rose from George's throat but he had been taken too unawares to put up much of a fight with a man twice his size and weight, pumped full of adrenalin, who had him flat on his back with his arms held tight behind him within seconds.
“George O’Hanrahan,” Pete said, “I am arresting you for suspected breaking and entering. You do not have to say anything but what you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.” George twisted and squirmed underneath him, uttering oaths in a language the copper couldn't understand. He was a strong man and had Pete not had the advantage of surprise he doubted he could have subdued George so successfully. But kept his whole weight down on the theif's back until he had thrashed out all his rage, then resignedly fell silent.
Still sitting on top of him, Pete reached for the toolbag George had dropped and pulled it open, expecting to find jewellery or candlesticks, something that was obviously valuable. Instead, by the light of the torch he fished from his pocket, he made out only two well-stuffed brown envelopes and a canister of film.
Underneath him, George grunted ill humour.
“Not what you were expecting there, bogey?” he said. He started to laugh, breaking into a hacking cough.
Well no, it wasn't, but George was still a wanted man.
“Jaysus man, can you get offa me?” he implored. “You're killing me here.”
“All in good time,” said Pete. “Soon as I work out how I'm going to get you out of here.”
This was a problem he hadn't thought about when he'd dived out of the tree, but there was no way they were going to go back the way they'd come. They were locked inside a private garden without a key, so there was really only one thing for it. “All right O’Hanrahan.” Pete hauled his quarry to his feet, still keeping his right arm firmly in a lock. He could have used a pair of handcuffs but there were only a few sets at the station and senior detectives took priority. “You'll have to show me how you get in and out of these places so easy. Let's leave by the front door, shall we?”
Pete was just steering him back through the French doors and into the house, George still twisting and squirming in his grasp, when the lights came on and a loud, upper class voice sounded out.
“Stop right where you are!”
An elderly butler, his white hair sticking up from the crown of his head, stood brandishing a brass poker on the threshold of the most opulent kitchen Pete had ever set eyes on. It was like something from a stately home, with a huge range and copper pans hanging down from the ceiling, over an immense oak table on which a block of chopping knives sat ominously. For a second, Pete and the butler stared at each other in mutual surprise, a moment that George immediately took advantage of, kicking Pete as hard as he could in the shin and trying to swivel round past him to freedom.
“Ooof!” The pain was sharp and he tottered backwards, George pushing at him like a bullock. Luckily, the butler was more ferocious than his advancing years suggested. “Stop thief!” he yelled, charging them with his poker aloft. Pete saw the glint of the yellow metal flash before his eyes, coming down hard across the side of George's head. The little man's eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the floor, out cold.
“Got you!” the butler yelled, raising his poker arm again to strike a second time. Pete dodged out of his reach, putting his palms up as he did.
“Steady,” he said, “I'm a police officer.”
“What?” The butler's eyes were red rimmed and there was a strong smell of whisky on his breath. Pete reached for his Warrant card while there was still time.
“PC Peter Bradley, 215, I'm an aid to CID at Notting Hill station,” he said, sticking it right under the old man's nose. “See for yourself, sir.”
“Well,” said the butler in exasperation, “what are you doing in my kitchen?”
“Catching this one,” said Pete, nodding towards George's slumped figure, “on his way out.”
It turned out that the old boy was the retainer of Lord Douglas Somerset, who was out at the theatre and not expected back until after midnight. He'd not heard George breaking in because he'd fallen asleep listening to the radio in his quarters downstairs, helped no doubt by that little nightcap or two he'd taken after his Lordship gave him permission to retire. Once he had calmed down, the poor old dear was mortified that he'd let the family honour down in such a way. He'd been in the service of the Somersets since he was Lord Douglas’ father's batman in South Africa. Pete felt sorry for him as he explained all, leaning against a chair, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, the poker now discarded on the table.
“You've no reason to chide yourself, sir,” he said, poking at George's prone form with his foot. “This one's a master criminal. He's been on our list for years; this is the first time he's ever been caught in the act. You should be proud of yourself.”
While George was still unconscious, they called the station to summon a helping hand. The butler tried to remember which playhouse his lordship was attending to no avail; in the end he left a message for Somerset at his club in Mayfair, where he was bound to decant himself after the show. Pete left him to check over the house with one of the beat bobbies who rolled up in the radio car, while he and the other dropped the dazed thief back onto his feet and carted him off. George continued to slur and curse all the way to the nick, but upon crossing the threshold, grew grimly silent.
The booking sergeant looked up as Pete marched George through the front door of the nick, an expression of delight on his face.
“Well, well, well,” he said, “if it isn't the gypsy king himself! Bet you didn't see this coming in your crystal ball, did you old son?”
George said nothi
ng, just stared at the man with cold hatred in his black eyes, a red weal throbbing on his left temple.
It must have been pretty humiliating for him.
“Check every inch of the bugger,” Pete said, as he handed him over. “I've seen him pull things out of thin air once already tonight. For all I know he's got a Gainsborough stashed down the back of his drawers.”
CID were all over George and the contents of his toolbag the moment he was whisked off to the cells. Pete gave what he hoped was a thorough debriefing of the night's events to his Sergeant, Derek Cooper, stressing that, in his opinion, they should be searching the Grove for George's Teddy boy accomplice. There had been a few troublemakers hauled off from the Mosley sideshow earlier, but none of the yobs in the cells matched this one's appearance. Then, midway through their conversation, Cooper was called out to speak to someone and when he returned, his expression had changed from active interest to a perplexed frown.
“That Teddy boy you said you saw talking to the suspect, can you run through his description for me again?” he asked.
Pete did so.
“Well that is peculiar,” said Cooper, tapping his pen against the top of the desk. “We've just had a young man come in who's a perfect match. Only,” he leaned forwards, a questioning look in his eyes, “this one says he's Lord Douglas Somerset's son.”
6 IT’S ONLY MAKE BELIEVE
It took me longer than I thought it would to put the finishing touches to the costumes for the opening night. I must have been sat in our back garden for six hours solid, stitching on sequins and ribbons to turn two ballet leotards into showgirls’ catsuits. It was intricate, repetitive and boring work. But it was just what I needed that day.
A letter from Ma had come in the morning post. She was as unhappy with my wedding as I had been with hers. She couldn't know how closely the two events were entwined.
Dennis and Ma had been married back in January, at the Bloxwich registry office. It had been a day of black skies and heavy snow, an omen perhaps, of what she was letting herself in for. A meal in the pub afterwards with my Aunts and Uncles and a smattering of friends from church, roast beef and hard potatoes. I couldn't get a single thing down me. The memory of Pa was so strong I could almost see him there, as he was before the illness, wearing his beret on the side of his head and his pipe in the corner of his mouth, watching with horror at what his Mary was doing.
It was the thought of Pa that had propelled me towards the public telephone by the toilets in that dim and dusty pub. Just before I had left, I had confessed to Toby my impending dread about the nuptials. He told me to call him if I needed picking up from the station. Thank God, I managed to get through to him.
Back at Euston, I alighted on the concourse feeling more alone than ever. As soon as I saw him striding towards me, a look of tender concern in his big blue eyes, the tears wouldn't stop. He took me back to Earl's Court in his little grey Woolsey, made me cocoa and let me sob it all out of my system. That night we exchanged our family histories, or at least, the stories of our parents.
Toby always tried his best to hide it, but his family were proper rich. The reason he had a whole basement to himself in Arundel Gardens was that it belonged to a property owned by his family. The rest of the floors were split into flats and rented out, but Toby had persuaded his father to let him have this space for himself when he came back from National Service to start college. Things had become so unbearable for him at home he couldn't contemplate returning. His father understood that much at least.
General Arthur St John Reade was a career soldier who had distinguished himself in Africa during the War. By comparison to the society of Desert Rats, he found London hard to tolerate and spent all his leave ensconced in his club in deepest Mayfair. Toby said he had always been a distant figure, idly patting him on the head at Christmas and then moving off, leaving behind an impression as thin as a trail of cigar smoke. His mother, Pearl, had been a successful stage actress before he was born and had married for money rather than love. Disappointed by the way things turned out, left alone and bored in their huge house in Putney, she had let Toby be brought up by his Nanny while she pursued her lost muse through the bottom of a gin bottle and a succession of affairs with younger men.
Just before he left to do National Service, he had found his mother in bed with his best friend from school.
“We're not going to be like that are we?” he had asked, his eyes red-rimmed, as the clock ticked towards 4am. “Selfish idiots getting married for what we can get out of it.”
“No.” I grasped his hand in my own. “No we're not.”
That wasn't how Ma had seen it. All afternoon, I had sat and stitched a sequin for her every word of recrimination, the shrill, hurt hysteria that had emanated from those pale lavender pages, along with the lingering smell of her perfume.
It was only when the light began to fade into dusk that I realised that I must already be late. I was supposed to me meeting Toby at Vernon Yard at eight, to put the finishing touches to everything. I looked up from my work and blinked rapidly. All that concentrating had made me go almost cross-eyed, an affliction I had suffered from as a child. Lights had come on around the square, mothers calling their children in for bed beyond our garden gate, the birds warbling their evensong. The world took a while to come into focus.
Once it did, I packed up and locked up quickly, throwing everything into my sewing basket, including the last batch of leaflets that we'd yet to hand out, to drop into Henekeys on the way. I must have been thinking ahead of my feet, running down our front steps and turning without looking, as I collided headlong with a man who was about to go up the steps of the house next door.
“Steady there, love.” He grabbed hold of my shoulders, saving me from bouncing straight off him and onto the pavement. He was a thick, solid bear of a man, easily over six foot, but his voice seemed oddly delicate by comparison.
I looked up, startled. He was smiling back, a nice, easy smile on a slightly battered face, with a wonky nose and a scar running through his left eyebrow, that had been cleanly shaved and carefully groomed. His thick black hair was cut into a sharp, Italian style, as was the dark blue fabric of the suit he was wearing.
“Are you OK?” he asked, letting go of me. He smelt strongly of aftershave and soap.
“Y-yes, thanks,” I stammered, knowing that my face had gone bright red. “I'm so sorry, I was in such a hurry I didn't look where I was going.”
“Well, no harm done,” he said, looking down at my basket and the twinkling sequins within. “I say, that looks nice. What is it?”
“Oh, just some costumes,” I said, “for an exhibition my husband's putting on. They've taken me ages, which is why I was late, they're so fiddly these little sequins.”
I had no idea why I was telling him this.
“An exhibition?” he said. “How exciting. What is it – art, theatre…?”
“Modern art,” I replied. “It opens tomorrow, just around the corner in Vernon Yard. Perhaps you'd like to come?”
I fumbled about trying to find him a leaflet without getting myself speared on the needles and pins that were still sticking out at all angles from the unfinished outfits.
“I hope you don't mind me asking,” he said, “but you came from next door, didn't you? Are you Toby's new wife? I mean,” he gave a self-conscious chuckle, “not that he had an old one…”
“Yes,” I said, having extracted what I was searching for. “Are you a friend of his?”
“Well not really ducks, but we did get to know him quite well last summer. We had a few garden parties and seeing as he was a neighbour we invited him out of politeness. We didn't want to disturb him when he could have been having fun, you know. Lovely young man he is. I'm Leonard Jacobson, by the way, but my friends call me Lenny – I live in the next basement down from you with my friend, James Myers.”
“Stella Reade,” I said, offering him the leaflet and then my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Lenny.”
<
br /> “AGOG,” Lenny read, “What's that all about then?”
“It's Toby and another two local artists, Chris Hawtry and Dave Dilworth,” I said. “They've got kind of similar ideas, a bit of Abstract Classicism and Cubism, but they needed one thing to link it all together.”
“I bet they did.” Lenny nodded solemnly and I wondered if he understood what I was saying.
“So they used an idea from the Situationists and named themselves after the giants Gog and Magog. The ancient guardians of London.” I felt a bit foolish as I didn't properly understand where this idea of Dave's had come from, but Lenny's expression suddenly got more enthusiastic.
“Ooh I know, like at the Lord Mayor's Show,” he said and this time it was my turn to smile through my incomprehension. “Very nice. Well ducks, I better not hold you up no more, but I'll tell James and I'm sure he'd love to come. It was nice to run into you,” he squeezed my arm, “and we'll see you tomorrow. Ta ta now love, and give our best to Toby.”
It was only as I reached the corner of Kensington Park Road that I suddenly made the connection. Lenny and James lived next door to us on the right-hand side. That meant it must have been them making that weird music on the night of my dream…
The memory made me shiver involuntarily but I pushed the feeling aside. I thought Lenny had been lovely and surely his friend would be too. By the time I had reached Vernon Yard, I could only think about what was to come on opening night.
Bad Penny Blues Page 7