It was eerily quiet in our corner of the West End, no sign of the police state in our little courtyard. The radio played innocuous pop songs as Jackie and I worked away, putting the finishing touches to our shop floor, deciding which outfits we wanted Jenny to wear.
Our model arrived at midday, radiating the Tuscan sunshine that had given her skin a honey-coloured glow. Even her basic outfit of black shirt, white slacks and black ballet shoes looked effortlessly sophisticated.
“Got through the barricades all right?” asked Jackie as she let her in.
“What do you mean?” Jenny frowned.
“There's supposed to be five thousand coppers out there and a load of angry peaceniks,” Jackie said. “Stella met some of them on the tube, we thought there was going to be another riot. Only we've not heard a squeak of it here.”
Jenny shrugged. “Me neither. I got off at Great Portland Street and walked from there, I didn't see anything going on. In fact, I thought it seemed rather like a ghost town, I wondered where everybody was.”
“Outside Claridges, according to my anarchist,” I said.
“Well, let them get on with it.” Jenny dismissed the subject as her eyes travelled round the room. “You have been busy haven't you?” she said. “This looks superb…”
We had all the fittings in the shop painted dazzling white, had the floor tiled in huge squares of black and white and worked my old jigsaw blocks in around the place to add a splash of colour. Shiny chrome rails and porthole mirrors to distort the perspective. It was supposed to be like being inside one of my Op Art paintings.
“So how's it going for you?” I asked. “Any more films in the offing?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I'm not really pursuing it, I'm just enjoying myself painting, seeing what comes. Now what have you got for me to try on? Come on, I'm dying to get stuck in.”
I was halfway through pinning her into a dress when the phone rang. Jackie went to get it and came back frowning.
“Jenny, it's someone called Dodson,” she said. “He said it's urgent.”
Jenny looked at me with wide eyes. “Oh God,” she said. “I wonder what that can mean?”
So did I. I had never heard of someone called Dodson before.
“Excuse me,” she said and ran up the stairs to take the call.
“Sounded like an old fella,” Jackie whispered behind her departing back, “a very nervous old fella and all. What the heck is she up to now?”
A few minutes later, Jenny stood on top of the stairs, her face ashen, her pupils wide.
“I've got to go,” she said, clutching on to the banister with whitening knuckles. “I'm really sorry, but my brother's just been arrested, I've got to get him out of there.”
Jackie and I turned to look at each other, our own faces reflecting Jenny's shock.
We never knew she had a brother.
15 FLASH! BANG! WALLOP!
Pete met with DI Bell late at night, on the bombsite bordering the canal that had just been cleared for construction, under the cover of cranes and concrete mixers. Once a notorious slum, housing successive waves of immigrants since the turn of the century, now this place was to be rebuilt into ‘civic housing’ for the poor, designed and overseen by the recently honoured architect, Sir Alex Minton.
As Pete walked towards Bell's car, he wondered if Minton knew anything about the people he was planning to send to live up in the concrete tower block proposed for the site. That ninety-five per cent of the men who lived round here had criminal records; that police had to patrol the streets four deep of a weekend; that a family of fourteen would probably fit into the same space as Sir Alex's own lavatory. He couldn't shake the image of a rats’ nest in the sky, everyone crawling over each other. His own head was crawling too, from lack of sleep and the contents of his report, events he could hardly keep up with and write down in detail at the same time. He would be back on duty again in six hours.
Pete got into the backseat of the car with the DI, whose driver sat in the front behind a plate of glass.
“You've been working hard, Bradley.” Bell's eyes registered appreciation as he took Pete's thick folder from him.
“It's all there, sir,” said Pete. “Though whether you can believe it is another matter.”
Besides the Togneri racket gang, there were four more cases in that ream of paper, works of Harold Wesker's personal fiction.
First there had been the shopkeeper, Horace Golding, charged with receiving stolen lighters. Pete had seen Wesker plant them on the unfortunate man. Golding had tried to stand up for himself but in the end, his lawyers had made him plead guilty and he'd served nine months for it. Golding had got out of jail only three weeks ago. If anyone had gone straight to Civil Liberties, Pete reckoned, it was him.
Then there was the bookie, Nobby Clarke, accused of blowing up one of his firm's offices with a detonator Wesker had found in his car – exactly the same kind of device as Georgios had been nicked for. Clarke and his mate Iain Woods, who had the misfortune to be in the car with him at the time, were arrested by Wesker in the early hours of 24 April. Both pleaded not guilty but went down anyway, on the strength of Wesker's testimony.
Events got steadily worse. Wesker arrested four men at the Establishment Club in May, for threatening the doorman. Two of them were deaf and dumb and had been using sign language. Of the four, only one of them had any previous. Wally Green had done three stretches for burglary, receiving stolen goods and armed robbery. But his companions were a grocer, an electrical engineer and a company director – hardly the type you'd expect to find carrying around the flick-knives, razors and iron bars that Wesker and Grigson had produced for their charge sheets.
Then, when four friends of Green's came to Marylebone Magistrate's to make bail for him, Wesker had the lot of them nicked for ‘attempting to pervert the course of justice’ – again by using sign language. So that made eight people currently awaiting trial, four of whom were physically disabled.
The whole thing beggared belief.
Except…Nobby Clarke used to knock about at Teddy Hills’ club. Pete had seen him there a few times; he had a notorious head of red curly hair. Clarke's friend, Iain Woods, had some form as a fence, same as Green; and Clarke, Woods and Green all socialised at the same pubs and clubs. Discounting the ‘crossfire’ of apparently respectable businessmen caught up in all of this, all roads seemed to lead back to Teddy's.
Pete had put all this into his report. Whether Bell would let him follow up on it was another matter.
The DI's eyes moved rapidly down the pages as he worked his way through the pile. Pete rubbed the back of his head, where his hair was starting to sprout a thick mass of curls. Three weeks late for the barber he was. Maybe he could fit in a trim before he had to report back to work, but that would mean only four hours’ sleep…
“Bradley.” Bell's voice cut through Pete's thoughts. “I can see you have done a thorough job here and I don't want to keep you any longer than necessary.” He tapped the window between themselves and the driver.
“Would you drive us to Oxford Gardens, please?” he said.
“Thank you sir.” Pete was grateful for the lift, even though it was only a ten-minute walk.
Bell closed the cardboard folder, scratched his moustache as the car crunched across the rubble and up onto the Golborne Road, staring out of the blackened windows into the sulphurous glow of the street lights and the figures that flitted past.
“I'll have you back here as soon as this is dealt with,” he said. “You'll be transferred before anything happens to Wesker, hopefully it'll stop you catching any flak. It could be days, rather than weeks, so prepare yourself.”
Pete followed Bell's gaze. A woman stood on the corner of the Portobello Road and Golborne Road, underneath the lamppost there. From the length of her skirt and the low cut of her blouse, there was no mistaking what she was doing hanging around. As they passed her by, she leaned her head backwards, dragging on a cigarette like it w
as the only thing sustaining her, eyes closed to the deadbeat world around her. Pete had an inkling of how she was feeling.
“Thank you sir,” said Pete as the car drew up at the end of his road.
“Bradley,” the DI said. “My advice to you now is to put in for your Detective Sergeant's exams. I know you'll make a better fist of that than Harold bloody Wesker.”
Bell's face set into grim lines as he spoke the last sentence.
As he walked up his drive, Pete could see floating shapes out of the corners of his eyes, the phantoms that followed him when he'd not had enough sleep, the beginnings of hallucination. He tried not to think about any of it as he made his way into the darkened house.
“Out! Out! Out! Out!”
The line of police outside Claridge's was three-men deep, a thick blue snake twitching backwards and forwards, ready to encircle the advancing protesters with their banners and their beards, draw them in and strike. Flanked by men on horses and strategically placed plainclothes, the body of the beast stretched around the corners of Brook Street and Davies Street, blocking off the entrance to the hotel on both sides. A clash of the red, white and blue with the black, brown and grey, the CND signs waving above the Union Flag, the shouts for Queen and country drowned out by laments for a dead Greek MP.
“Lambrakis! Lambrakis!”
“Down with the Nazi Queen!”
Six hours later and Pete's meeting with Bell seemed like a distant dream, part of the hallucination of the night world of the Grove, as here in Mayfair, the air thronged with the sound of stamping feet and clanging horseshoes, the oceanic roar of the mob.
The Bastard Squad was positioned around the back of the protest, to anticipate trouble before it arrived or mount a vanguard attack. Wesker was desperate to be in the thick of it. Smacking his fist against his palm, cracking his knuckles, imagining he was breaking the heads of those that had dared to criticise a queen, his Queen, the woman he had fought his way through Italy for. Long-haired nonces and deviants, bastards the lot of them, they were all going to get it, he had briefed his team before they left the station in their wagon, one of a brace of them now parked at the hotel's rear.
“Don't hold back lads,” he had said, vein pumping on his forehead, sweat prickling his brow. “They're all traitorous scum and if it were up to your Uncle Harry, I'd court martial the fucking lot of ’em.” Grigson at his side smiled evilly, nostrils flared to savour the bouquet of chaos in the air, ready for more aggro than these protesters could possibly have dreamed of.
Pete and Bream stood back from them as always, lurking in doorways, watching, waiting for the fuse to ignite. It didn't take long. A lanky young man with a long blonde fringe broke away from the back of the protesters and started to walk towards Brooks Mews, looking around him as if searching for something. In his hand was a paper banner that read: Lambrakis RIP.
Pete frowned. There was something familiar about the lad, but he didn't have time to work it out, just saw Wesker walk towards him, gesturing at Grigson to follow, before a sudden rush of people came round the corner to join the back of the marchers. Another wave of Ban-the-Bombers piled into the throng, about twenty of them, all with their weird beards and corduroys, badges and banners. Their leader was a stout, bearded fellow in a donkey jacket, wielding a megaphone. When he shouted into it: “No Nazis here!” they all responded: “Out! Out! Out!”
Pete exchanged a glance and a nod with Bream, moved out of his doorway and into the midst of them. He was thankful he'd not had time for his appointment at the barber's now, at least his messy hair and his naturally saggy jacket let him blend in with the students. Let him get closer to Wesker. Through a sea of hair and arms he caught sight of him, holding up the blonde lad's paper banner and shouting something at him, saw Grigson calling over a couple of beat bobbies. There was a flash of indignation in the young man's eyes before the handcuffs came out and fear replaced it, and it was that look that sent Pete's mind spiralling back to Ladbroke Grove nick in the summer of 1959, that same look, only with a greased-up Teddy boy quiff instead of a floppy fringe, a black-and-white checked sports jacket instead of a tonic suit.
Wesker was nicking Giles Somerset, hauling him off by his collar while Grigson and the uniforms pushed everyone else out of their way. Somerset's eyes were wide and he was pleading ten to the dozen. Wesker was enjoying every second of the lad's distress.
The crowd surged from behind him and Pete felt himself pressed forwards; he went with the flow to avoid falling over, pushed up against the protester with the megaphone, the smell of sweat and adrenalin in his nostrils. The man put out a hand and laid it on Pete's arm to steady him.
“All right there, mate?” the protester said, brown eyes magnified through his thick specs as they ran up and down the length of Pete, rapidly sizing him up and turning hostile.
“Here lads,” the protester shouted to his companions, “something smells bad around here. I reckon it's filth.”
“Don't be so hasty…” Pete began, but the other man didn't give him the time to finish his sentence. He pushed his megaphone into someone else's hands and lunged straight at Pete. From the flicker in his eyes, Pete saw it coming and ducked his head out of the way, catching hold of the other man's arm and trying to twist it behind his back, only there were bodies everywhere, pressing and barging into them. A woman started screaming and her screams were joined by the shrill of a siren, the wagon containing Wesker and his prey coming past the back of them. Pete struggled to stay upright while the protester flailed under his grip and his friends grabbed hold of Pete's arms, trying to prise him off. He felt kicks to his ankles and his shins as he instinctively moved backwards, dragging the protester with him, and then suddenly there was Bream beside him, pushing arms off him, a couple of bobbies bringing up the rear, wading in with truncheons raised.
Pete felt like his arms were about to be pulled out of their sockets as he dragged the man out of the fray, his ears ringing with noise, elbows, hands and feet everywhere, hair in his mouth. The protester had stopped struggling now, made himself a dead weight that Pete had literally to haul onto the pavement. The bobbies moved in quickly, surrounding them, kneeling on the man's chest as Pete intoned the words of arrest.
“Nazi scum!” the man shouted, then spat straight into Pete's face. His glasses had come off in the scrum and his face was purple with rage. For one second Pete felt his arm swing backwards, his hand balled into a fist. Then he caught himself, fought it back down, white light crackling across his temples as he shook his head to clear it, reached for his handkerchief instead to wipe the mucus off his face. He would not be like Wesker. He would not be like Grigson.
It took three uniforms to get the protester back on his feet and push him towards the wagons. Pete put his hands on his knees and caught his breath as he started back into the mêlée, where Bream and a bobby were pulling out another couple of weird beards, twisting and shouting in their grasp. He could feel blood running down his shins but the pain hadn't kicked in yet, his adrenalin was pumping too fast. He straightened up, went back in to Bream's aid. Got the other two into the wagon with their leader, screamed their way back to West End Central.
More screaming in the cells, the place fit to burst, a clanging cacophony of boots and metal doors, cries of pain and howls of rage. In the detention room, the three protesters slumped onto chairs, silent now, their ringleader radiating resentment, the other two more like fear. Pete's arrest was one Robert Parry, 27, of Ellerslie Road, Shepherd's Bush, who gave his occupation as a librarian. The other two were Stephen Fairchild, 22 and Graham Dixon, also 22, students at the LSE. Pete had Parry booked for assaulting an officer, Fairchild and Dixon for affray. On the table in front of them were the contents of their pockets – cigarettes, matches, leaflets about Lambrakis and CND, library cards, keys, loose change. Bream taking it all down, the Front Officer elsewhere, up to his eyeballs in prisoners. The bruises on Pete's legs starting to throb.
A face appeared at the door.
/> “Well, well, well. What have we here then?”
Wesker walked into the room, surveyed the trio with a look of amusement.
“Sir.” Bream passed him the charge sheets. Wesker's smile deepened as he took it all in. He handed the clipboard back, honed in on Parry, leaned over the desk, smiling that bloodhound's smile.
“Assaulting an officer?” he said. “Oh dearie me.”
Parry glowered back.
“Who are you?” he said, giving Wesker the same strafing look he'd earlier employed on Pete.
“I'm the Chief Super,” said Wesker. “Your worst fucking nightmare, son.”
Pete shifted his weight from one throbbing leg to the other, tried to keep his expression blank. He had never heard Wesker promote himself like this before, wondered what was coming next.
Parry laughed. “You ain't nothing but a Nazi tool of the state,” he said.
Beside him, Fairchild and Dixon looked set to wet themselves.
Wesker's smile deepened and he leaned forward across the desk until he was practically nose to nose with Parry. “I fought fucking Nazis when you were in short trousers, you horrible piece of scum,” he said softly. “That is a very grave insult you have just levelled at me.”
Wesker drew back slowly, putting his hand into his pocket.
“An insult that's worth,” he said, drawing his hand back out, “about two years.”
Even Parry flinched as Wesker slammed down a piece of brick on the table in front of him.
“And look!” the DS went on, producing another piece and slamming it in front of Fairchild. “One for you! Oh and…” He went for the opposite pocket now. “One for you too!” Dixon almost fell off his chair.
“A present from your Uncle Harry!”
“Sir,” Bream began. “They're all ready bang to rights. You don't need…”
“Don't need?” Wesker looked at him as if he were mad. “I've got every bloody need. No long-haired nonce calls me a Nazi and gets away with it. That's why,” he stomped over to Parry again, picked up the brick he'd placed in front of him and slammed it down again for emphasis, “the biggest piece goes to the biggest boy!”
Bad Penny Blues Page 16